


Swallowed Into the Pit

by Catminty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: The Headmasters
Genre: Bestiality, Blood, Cannibalism, Dismemberment, Egg Laying, Emotional Manipulation, Eradication, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gore, M/M, Mpreg, Non-Sentient Swarm, Other, Oviposition, Paralysis, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sticky Sex, Stockholm Syndrome, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:16:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 35
Words: 36,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catminty/pseuds/Catminty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crippled, Sunstreaker fights to survive the Swarm out in the middle of nowhere. But it is not his life he should fear for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU spinoff in which Sunstreaker's paralysis is inoperable, but he continues to eradicate swarm with Ironhide. That is, until, his hover chair breaks down out in the middle of heavily-infested Swarm territory.
> 
> Warning: Flash appearances by Bob may lead to diabetes.

"How ya holdin' up?" Ironhide asked as he wiped splatters of processed energon from his cooling cannon. 

Seated on his hover-chair situated between piles of smoldering frames, Sunstreaker inspected himself for any damage from the recent fight. The blaster in his servo clicked a few times when tested, signifying its depleted charge. Finding nothing more wrong than a few minor scrapes, he turned his piercing blue optics to the surrounding area. He gave a quick, sharp whistle, and a small form scurried out from beneath the steaming pile of carcasses. The energon that coated its wriggling frame flicked off with each overenthusiastic shake of its aft. 

Bob always enjoyed the spoils of a good eradication. Smirking, Sunstreaker responded, "We're fine."

Ironhide returned the smirk with a satisfied grin, then he surveyed the area. There were close to a hundred deactivated Swarm frames littering the rundown area of the abandoned city. This group had recently moved in by the looks of things. This hive was in the beginning stages of connecting two tall buildings together with pieces of other cannibalized structured--not the best game plan considering that the buildings had been decaying and deteriorating since the Great War. 

But, then again, the Spawn weren't the brightest mechs out there. Even Bob had his moments. Moments where he'd blindly go charging headlong into a wall because a piece of scrap metal caught light in just the right way. Sunstreaker really did love his bug, but no amount of tricks Bob learned or pats on that little helm could put a real mech's processor in there. 

They were mostly mindless; their only drive was to eat and multiply until there was nothing left. Sunstreaker and Ironhide had found several wastelands during their travels. Not even buildings were exempt from their ravenous hunger. And in the dead center of each ravaged, barren plains was a nest filled with greyed out Swarm frames. They often starved to death because they were too singleminded to try and move to find more food when their hive was fully established. 

The nests would all die out eventually whether it be from a blaster or starvation. That much was certain. 

It was the stragglers, the outliers, that kept Sunstreaker up at night. They were the only ones smart enough to travel to find more food. Were _they_ sentient? Or were they just the betters of the conglomerate of failed experiments? 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow chapter 3 got eaten. I've appended it to this chapter instead.

Reluctance slowed his steps as Ironhide shuffled through the pile of Swarm to find a suitable corpse. Strong servos ripped off a piece of the protective plating on a suitable deactivated creature, and a short dagger was used to slice open the still-warm line. Rich, royal blue fluids leaked out of the slit and fell into an empty cube waiting down below.

"I'll never get used to this slag..." he grumbled then knocked back the cube of preprocessed energon. It was sweet, sickeningly so when a mech knew where it came from. Ironhide couldn't help but make a face of disgust when the thick fuel clung to the back of his intakes. Another three cubes were grudgingly filled to help boost their stores. Even though it wasn't likely that they'd run short using this technique, it never hurt to play it safe. 

"Here," Ironhide grunted, extending a cube to Sunstreaker. 

The golden mech shook his helm. "No. Watch." He stared straight at the only living Swarm member in the vicinity and ordered, "Bob. Fuel."

A curious tilt of the helm proceeded the small creature's bound into the piles. The mound shifted minutely, a sickening snap rumbled from within, and then Bob bound out tugging a detached limb in his small muzzle. 

Ironhide watched in interest as Bob spat out the arm at Sunstreaker's peds and sat expectantly, hoping for a reward. The frown on Sunstreaker's face made Bob wilt considerably. "No," Sunstreaker said, shifting his chair forward. The Lamborghini leaned down, effortlessly ripped open a greyed chassis, and pulled out a fuel tank. Energon sprayed everywhere. "This." He extended the tank down to Bob's level and let the bug get a good sniff. "Fuel. Go get me one."

With an excited wiggle, Bob leapt back into the pile. When he next emerged, trailing ends of a fuel pump tripped up his happy scurry. Ironhide couldn't help but grin when Bob set the rattling fuel pump in Sunstreaker's offered servo. 

"Eh. Close enough," Sunstreaker praised the small beast with a rough pat on the helm. It stared up at him expectantly--hopefully--with its little aft wiggling in apprehension. The golden mech couldn't hold back his small smile. "Go on, eat your fill."

Both mechs laughed when Bob joyously jumped into the pile a third time. So busy with their little exchange, they didn't notice a large, lone shadow lurking high up on one of the rooftops. 

~-~-~

The little pack had taken refuge in the cleansed nest for a few orns. Time like this was valuable--it gave them the chance to rest, refuel, and restock their supplies. A mech would be surprised how well a swarm's leg could be constructed to make a small gun's housing. It was crude, morbid even, but there was just something exhilarating about being able to live out in the wild where your quarry wouldn't think twice about eating you. 

But some things required modern Cybertronian technology. Like Sunstreaker's paralysis. Without his hover chair, it was nearly impossible to sweep as an effective team.  Defense could even become an issue. So when the chair started sputtering under the strain of moving a few corpses, Sunstreaker immediately dropped his load with a muttered curse. 

"What's wrong?" Ironhide asked as he rushed over, his own previous cargo forgotten. 

"Stupid chair..." Sunstreaker slammed his fist on the chair's side, and the machine ceased its fuss. He waved off his partner and carried on with a lighter load. 

The red mech was worried. Rightfully so. They were far out this time around, farther than they had ever dared before. Sunstreaker was unable to move his lower half since the explosion a while back. He had saved Perceptor from certain demise, but the heroics had cost him dearly. Now, the golden ex-frontliner couldn't walk to save his life, let alone the life of another one of his comrades. 

Without that chair, Ironhide would have to carry Sunstreaker back to base. He wished that they had purged all of the nests they came across initially instead of saving half of them for the return trip. 

Victory road suddenly became a gauntlet. 

"I'm fine," Sunstreaker barked out as he dumped two bodies on the larger heap. "Even if this--" The chair faltered again, pausing mid-motion then jerking forward suddenly. "--piece of _scrap_ goes out, I can make it without your help. I'm not gonna weigh you down."

"'S not like that, Sunstreaker," Ironhide said, a twinge of worry softening his gruff voice. "We'll figure out sumthin'."

Sitting dutifully by their peds, Bob stared off into the darkness of the dead city. His four small, orange optics locked on the form shifting between the shadows. Small antenna tweaked to taste the scent on the wind. That one wasn't a hive Swarm. It also wasn't getting closer, merely lurking from the distance.

Attentive of their watcher, Bob relaxed down on his belly and waited patiently for his master to finish grumbling at the hover chair. 


	3. Chapter 3

There were two other hives scattered throughout the dead city. Ironhide and Sunstreaker swept them clean on their second orn residing in the ruins. They were working toward that which they could not speak of with stubbornness shared between their war-hardened, kindred sparks. 

Ironhide worked himself to exhaustion moving the carcasses of the dead to a stable building far away from their temporary shelter. Sunstreaker forced one of their last cubes of normal energon down the red mech's intakes and ordered him to rest for the night, careless of whether such an order counted as insubordination or not. It didn't matter, not with how things were quickly going to slag. 

Sunstreaker spent the early evening just outside their small shelter. Lighting was scattered in the area to be low enough to give him visibility without advertising "Free meal!" to any remaining Swarm stupid enough to try and attack. 

But even with his blaster securely locked in his hold and Bob by his side, Sunstreaker knew something was wrong. The silence made him nervous.

One was out there, he realized while observing Bob that evening. The little bug was exceptional at sniffing out his own kind. The mech shifted his chair next to the small Swarm to stare out into the inky blackness of the night. He lightly ran his fingertips along Bob's helm, pulling a contented purr from his pet. 

"Bob. Fuel," he ordered offhandedly to help calm his nerves. A pile of corpses was still close by, it was safe enough to practice. Bob quietly scuttled over to shift through the mound.

After a klik, a clank of metal sounded from the side of the hover chair. Sunstreaker reached down blindly for what Bob retrieved. It was a wing this time. 

His initial hopes of training the bug to find food for him if worst came to worst were slowly dying. They had been practicing this for deca-cycles. If he was honest with himself, Sunstreaker realized that he was lucky to have taught Bob to sit. Tracking was natural for a hiveless Swarm. Not eating him or Ironhide in their sleep was understandable because Bob had at least some life-preservation instincts; so many just like himself were killed mercilessly by the mechs he traveled with. 

Tremors shook his frame as realization hit home: If Sunstreaker's chair went out, his life really was forfeit. 

"Good boy," Sunstreaker said absently.

Bob plopped down on his aft and stared intently into the darkness. Those little orange optics roved around in a pointed stare, tracking something climbing around on the decrepit buildings. 

The Swarm weren't Insecticons. Rather, they were the failed experiments of a mad Decepticon scientist attempting to create them. For every one Insecticon created, more than a thousand failed experiments were brought to functioning. Many were mindless, ravenous machines bent on devouring whatever they could. They were released onto Cybertron in hopes of crippling the Autobot encampments scattered about on the dead planet. No one realized the level of destruction the seemingly useless creatures could dole out. 

The Autobots later discovered that the test for pass/failure was black and white. That meant many nearly perfect Insecticons lurked across Cybertron with the intelligence of a mech and the starvation-resistant attributes of an Insecticon. 

A reflection from their camp's meager lighting gleamed off their visitor's spiked armor. Either it was too stupid to realize that it gave away its position, or it openly showcased its existence to him in the dead of night. 

Sunstreaker reached down and patted his apprehensive  bug's helm, not taking his optics off the subtle glow  focused intently on his frame.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no self control! Fourth chapter today. Granted, it's short.

The failing mechanics got worse on the third orn. Together, the mechs worked toward the unspoken project of creating a small, defensible fort. It would give Sunstreaker enough defense to hold off on his own while Ironhide raced back to civilization for help. 

They hoped so anyway. 

The structure was just large enough to fit a mech comfortably. It had a thick exterior made of numerous sheets of metal ripped from other crumbling buildings nearby. The spikes donning the top might impale a few of the less intelligent scavengers. There was only one entrance because escape was not an option if the housing was breached. It was a massive, crude pile of sharpened scrap metal that would make any engineer or constructor queasy to look at. But, it was stable, and it was the only thing that could protect a cripple out in the dangers of Swarm territory. 

The chair broke down on their fourth orn inhabiting the ghost town. 

Ironhide spent that evening sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with the ex-frontliner throughout the dead of night. The odds of them both making it back alive were low, they were both extremely vulnerable. If a swarm descended on the city while Ironhide was racing back to civilization, Sunstreaker would be eaten alive. If Ironhide was caught by a wandering Swarm on his way back, he likely wouldn't survive the fight. Meaning Sunstreaker would either be picked off by swarm that eventually overtook the area, or he would simply starve to death. 

Even Primus was probably betting against him by this point, Sunstreaker reasoned. 

"Has yer bug seen any of...them since we purged the area?" Ironhide asked, hesitating only slightly. 

Sunstreaker stared off into the night. "No," he lied. The red mech took it for the truth and relaxed fractionally. He wouldn't tell his friend that their visitor made an appearance each night, or how it--at that very klik--sat in the open window of a building and observed them studiously.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LAST ONE. Primus, I was on a roll today. Too bad I have work in the morning. :[

Bright and early on the fifth morning, Ironhide assisted Sunstreaker into the small shelter. The golden mech refused to take more than one cartridge for his blaster knowing that the other would have to shoot his way back to civilization. 

When Ironhide tried to give him more than his share of energon, Sunstreaker gruffly opposed with, "It won't do either of us any good if you run empty before you make it back." He then pushed an extra cube in Ironhide's quaking servos. "Use these to up your speed a little. Alright?" Sunstreaker leaned his helm back with a huff. "I'm sick and tired of being so filthy. Get me a pickup so I can go get a fragging shower. And a wax. _Frag."_  


It wasn't much, but it gave Ironhide hope to think that he hadn't given up. "Prissy aft..." the red mech grumbled with a small smile on his face. He lifted up the final piece of the shelter's covering and welded it shut with the their field repair kit. 

Only a small opening remained to give Sunstreaker a limited view of the outside world. He relaxed back, patting Bob lovingly who sat dutifully at his side. 

The welder flicked off, and a shadow cast over the opening. Four red digits curled inside, seeking contact for what would very likely be the last time. Sunstreaker obliged, touching the scarred digits with his own. 

"Ah _will_ come back, Sunstreaker," Ironhide said softly. It sounded like he was close to crying. His accent always thickened when emotions got the best of him. 

Squeezing the digits, Sunstreaker pulled them away and leaned up to the opening. "If you spend too much time worrying about me, you'll end up getting slagged by those fraggers," he said seriously. Ironhide stepped back and nodded sharply. Sunstreaker smirked confidently at his friend with far more reassurance than he really felt. "I'll be here when you get back."

Wiping the tears from his optics, Ironhide collapsed down into his alt mode and slowly pulled away. ::Are ya sure ah can't carry ya back?:: the red mech asked nervously. 

It was something Sunstreaker expected. ::I'm sure, mech.::

The further Ironhide drove away, the worse the comm connection became. ::If... If we don't make it...:: Static filled the line, but it was from Ironhide's resistant vocalizer. ::It was a pleasure workin' with ya, friend.::

Back in his small shelter, Sunstreaker cradled his helm in his servos and tried to stave off the tears. ::Yeah,:: he muttered, vents hitching. ::It was great working with you, too.::

It would have been comforting to keep in contact, but comm channels lost strength the further apart two mechs were. Back in the day, before the Cons destroyed the supplemental satellites, comm chatter extended across the entire planet. It was nothing for a mech to talk to a friend on the other side of the planet with crystal clear clarity. Now, connections dropped with just a few thousand mechanometers distance. The two mechs were quickly reaching the cutoff point even though they both knew it was inevitable. 

Heaving a shaky exvent, Sunstreaker forced out, ::If I'm not here when you get back, don't go looking for me.::

Even from the distance stretched between them, Ironhide's squealing tires could still be heard. ::Why ah--:: he snarled across the comm. ::Don't ya say that! Ah'm comin' back fer ya whether ya like it or not! So ya better keep yer prissy little aft in there and wait fer me to come back!:: 

Sunstreaker sobbed into his servo. It was unlikely that it went unheard by the other mech. ::Alright.::

::That was an order, soldier!:: Ironhide barked.

The sudden demand made Sunstreaker smile softly in spite of himself. ::Y-Yes, Sir!::

Just a breem later, the connection broke into static. Sunstreaker was scared before, but true terror welled in his spark with the knowledge that this was the end. What a way to offline. He looked down, startled, as Bob cuddled up in his lap, doing his best to comfort his distressed master. It gave him something else to focus on, and for that he was thankful.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to say that 5 chapters was enough for one day. Headcanon disagreed.

Three orns of silence passed. 

Not a single click, chitter, or scuffle of scurrying peds sounded outside the little fort. Worry clouded Sunstreaker's processor; did their silent observer chase after Ironhide? Was the older mech still functioning? Fear for his friend haunted his processor every night, ripping him from recharge before he got any useful rest. 

Sunstreaker weathered the orns that passed so slowly that they caused physical pain. On the third orn alone, he realized he couldn't feel his legs. An experimental tug on one of the limp appendages made the entire limb tingle with energon flow finally cycling after extended disuse.

While he was technically paralyzed, he was required to stretch out his disfunctional legs each orn to keep circulation in working order. The added stress of keeping watch of the small window and listening for any sign of activity outside also left him lacking in recharge and forgetful of his necessary maintenance. 

Pushing away from the wall, Sunstreaker took hold of his right knee and slowly raised the unresponsive leg. It hurt immensely. The circulation must have been cut off for a while if the pain was that severe. He bent the knee and leaned his helm down on it, venting harshly to hold back the urge to whimper. Sharp, stabbing pain of thousands of tiny daggers driving into his plating raced up and down his leg as the energon started cycling fully once more. 

Not wanting to undergo the same torture twice, he heaved his left leg up and held his knees together under his chin. The pain was so immense that his vision swam. Or maybe that was because of the increased energon flow? Scrap, it didn't matter. All Sunstreaker knew was the overwhelming, gripping pain of his legs coming back to near-function.

He rested his forehelm on his knees and whimpered softly. The pain reminded him of those humans that dissected him with all of their drills, saws, and other implements of torture back on Earth. He didn't let himself think about the time spent as a decapitated helm. 

A chirr at his side went unanswered. Bob could wait, he just needed a breem. Another chirr, this one longer, came questioning from the side. "Bob--" Sunstreaker looked up, agitated. His reprimand died on his derma at the sight of a large faceplate looming just outside the small window. Two bright, orange optics focused on his, flashed to his legs, then back to his optics. The Swarm gave a questioning chitter. 

Crippling fear left Sunstreaker frozen, holding his legs close. He expected it to latch onto the opening and attempt to pry it apart. Or, perhaps, for it to lock its mandibles on the metal and begin to eat away the shelter. But to the mech's stupefied shock, it only stared at him from a seemingly safe distance.

The exchange was disturbingly like the night he first saw it.

Clicking in its strange language, the Swarm moved away from the small window. Its armor rustled quietly, then a heavy vibration of wings echoed outside. 

Sunstreaker released a shaky, full-chassis vent when a klik of silence passed. He looked down at his faithful watchbug recharging strutlessly by his side. They had both been up for orns on end, it was really no wonder why Bob hadn't woken at the scent of their observer. 

Looking down at his legs, he realized the excruciating pain from earlier had passed. The Lamborghini ran his servos down his legs, carefully tracing each legplate to ensure that he could feel again. 

He tried to not think about how close Unicron was to claiming his spark. 


	7. Chapter 7

The rations they stockpiled were rapidly dwindling. Sunstreaker realized that he forgot to take into account Bob's massive fuel requirements when only two cubes remained after the tenth orn in the fort. Bob's little orange optics trailed the cube Sunstreaker prepared for their meal. He was hungry--they both were. 

Pouring half of the cube into an empty one, he extended it to Bob slowly. The little Swarm lunged at the fuel but stopped short, wilting when the cube was jerked back. "Slowly. We have to conserve it," Sunstreaker tried to explain. He lowered the cube to Bob's level and let him refuel. The first few sips were slow, tentative like the good boy the bug tried so hard to be. 

Blue optics paled from undercharge observed the feeding tiredly. Sunstreaker took his optics off Bob for just a klik to sip at his own cube. His servo gripped frantically on nothing when the small Swarm nabbed the cube and ran to a small corner of the fort. "Bob! You have to save it!" His scolding fell on deaf audios as Bob frantically slurped down his ration. When it emptied, his small, elongated glossa lapped the cube's interior in search of any missed droplets. 

Sighing, Sunstreaker took another sip of his own cube to stave off his hunger. He should have realized how hard it would be on them. It was hard for the golden mech to limit his little pet when he soundlessly begged for more sustenance. 

The empty cube clinked against his lax servo. Sunstreaker looked down at Bob, frowning sadly at the guilty slouch in his bug's frame. "It's alright. I know you didn't mean to." He ran a comforting servo down Bob's back. "Tomorrow, Bob. I'll let you eat as much as you want tomorrow," he promised tiredly, leaning his helm against the shelter's wall. 

Ten orns. Just ten orns and they were already running out of energon. It took that long just to get to base. It was easy to forget that a Swarm needed to eat ten times its weight every orn to stay fully charged when he used to gorge himself on corpses. 

Sunstreaker finished off his half-cube and stored their last one in subspace. Relaxing, he let himself wonder if Ironhide made it back yet. Did he run out of fuel? Did he survive the escape from the maw of the pit? 

The Lamborghini toyed with the idea that they threw Ironhide a "Welcome home!" party when he arrived at Autobot HQ. Everyone liked the old mech; he was a great teacher to the young, comrade to the old, and friend to anyone and everyone in between. The party would be a big bash. Mechs would come from all sorts of planets just to see him. 

He smiled at the thought. There'd be enough illicit highgrade and fireworks to send security into a tizzy. And Ironhide would accept all the attention with a gracious grin and a friendly pat on the back to all his friends. He never was one to get a big helm over some praise.

As Sunstreaker drifted into a hunger-induced recharge, he smiled to himself and hoped there'd be balloons. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I am not liable for any diabetes caused by this chapter. Read at your own risk.

"Now, you have to be careful," Sunstreaker ordered as he adjusted one of Bob's lopsided antenna. "There's one out there somewhere. You remember him from before, right? Don't let him eat you."

The little Swarm stared up at him, helm tilted slightly in confusion. He probably didn't understand a word Sunstreaker said. But, he did know how to take care of himself; he was a loner before being tamed by the two mechs. The little bug probably knew to hit the deck when he sensed any others of his kind nearby. Probably. 

The golden mech pointed to a small indent in the walls where two sheets of metal met. Bob followed his digit intently, leaning forward. "Here. Eat a little hole through this spot so you can get in and out," he instructed. "Don't be afraid to come back here if one is chasing you." The digit rose up, and Bob leaned back on his haunches. "I'd rather blow one of those fraggers to bits than have you get eaten."

At the blank stare, Sunstreaker scowled, jabbing his digit forward. "Hey, are you even _listening_ to me?" he scolded, waving his digit up and down in front of Bob's muzzle. Tracking the movement, the bug nodded rapidly. 

Sunstreaker reared back in startled confusion. When Bob followed his movement, climbing onto his leg slightly, the mech connected the dots. "Stupid bug..." Grinning, he patted Bob's helm affectionately then pushed his little aft to the corner. "Go outside. Eat."

_That_ got the reaction he was looking for. The little Swarm made quick work of nibbling his way to the outside world. Excited little chatters echoed through the area as Bob dug in for his feast. 

One very common problem shared by almost all of the swarm was their system's inefficient use of resources. Their frames ran full power every klik of the orn, even when they were recharging. It had something to do with bad coding in their initial creation. So if a Swarm wanted to survive, it had to spend most of the orn eating. That was why they ran out of energon do quickly even with the pile of scrap metal initially stored in the enclosure. 

In the safety of the fort, Sunstreaker watched his little bug eat to his spark's content. Bob purred happily while munching on a toppled street sign. The Swarm would have run out of resources and starved out log ago if it wasn't for their ability to turn almost any matter into energy. 

The few Insecticons in existence were similar to their experiment-brothers in the best of ways. They could turn any matter into energy, but they did not have the same malfunction that kept them running endlessly. 

Titanium tanks and efficient energy. Even the above-average Cybertronian couldn't claim that. It set their species apart and endangered anyone the Insecticons brought wrath down upon. 

Holding his blaster close, Sunstreaker watched Bob skitter from scrap pile to scrap pile in his joyous smorgasbord. Insecticons were extremely rare. He was probably just too cautious.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last one for the day! (Unless headcanon strikes again.)

A mech would think Bob was offered the entire decrepit city on a silver platter the way he wriggled anxiously by the newly designated "door" as morning rolled around. Well, technically, he might be able to eat the entire city if he lived there long enough. 

The cuteness escalated by the klik the longer he had to wait. Oddly enough, Sunstreaker was "too busy" to notice. Cleaning a blaster was a _really_ processor consuming task after all. 

The little bug waited as patiently as his hyper frame allowed. The feast he gorged on over the past two orns converted into energy to power his playful jitters. Still, the mech was far to busy cleaning his weapon to give Bob the go ahead to scamper outside. 

That was until Bob rolled over on his back, exposed his tummy, and gave a pleading whine. 

Fraggit. That bug was too cute. "Fine. Go on," he gruffed out with a grin. 

Little armor platelets clattered as Bob flipped over so quickly that his hind legs slipped out beneath him and his aft thumped on the ground. Sunstreaker laughed heartily as Bob darted out of the shelter. The golden mech resumed cleaning his gun with a small smile in spite of the current situation. 

However, his churning fuel tank decided to remind him how he was just, oh, slowly starving to death. The last cube he saved was tucked safely in his subspace for when he reached minimal fuel pressure in his lines. It wasn't much, but it would increase his chance of surviving until the rescue party got there. 

A small hope welled in his spark. They might actually make it.

A high-pitched scream echoed through the area. Sunstreaker frantically tried to reassemble his disarrayed blaster. That scream--there was only one creature out there that could have been the victim. Bob was too small to kill another of his kind! 

His hands shook so hard that he wasn't even able to grip the pieces of the gun. Another shriek rent through the air, and Sunstreaker launched himself to the small window to the outside. He could see the backstuts of the missing lurker crouching over a flailing form. 

It wasn't Bob! It couldn't be Bob! 

But the wriggling lump of a frame was so small next to the looming Swarm. His optics stared in wide horror as serrated talons slipped through plating, ripped open the small chassis, and pulled out the internals of the bug still in its death throes. 

"Bob!" Sunstreaker sobbed out. 

The frame rose slowly, stretching tall as it stood straight. It turned its spiked, mech-like frame and slowly stalked on two peds toward the fort. 

Sunstreaker stared sightlessly  at his impending doom. His digits clenched the small opening tightly in distressed, but guilt-laced pain disabled him from trying to seek safety. 

Bob was dead. He was out eating in the dangers of the outside area and got picked off by that sparkless fragger. That stupid, underclocked glitch killed his friend! Sunstreaker optics trailed down to dripping internals clenched lightly in the lurker's energon-soaked grasp. 

That thing was more than a simple Swarm. It planned out Bob's demise, striking when they least expected it. 

Sunstreaker felt safe in the deceptively peaceful situation. He should have realized, should have known it was a trap. Once again, his bad decision cost him his only remaining friend. 

It was like Hunter all over again. 

Stress made his vision waver, but he determinedly glared death straight in the optics as the monstrosity loomed over the tiny window. Two long talons slipped in the corner of the window and slid smoothly down, through the layered exterior with ease. When it reached the bottom, Sunstreaker heaved the massive door forward. It clattered to the ground with a bang. 

A fierce snarl left Sunstreaker's vocalizer and he raised his fists in a pathetic fighting stance. If that fragger wanted a fight, he sure as pit would give him one!

The servo sporting freshly spilled energon extended into his personal space. He pushed the limb away, causing the contents it held to crash to the side. Did it really have the bearings to rub his dead pet's internals in his faceplate?

Muffled, frenzied chirrs came from behind the lurker's shoulder spikes. The folded spikes relaxed, letting a small form scurry out and down the large Spawn's extended arm. It was--

"Bob!" Sunstreaker gasped out, lunging forward to wrap his arms around his shaking pet. His frame fell forward under the strain of trying to remain balanced, but he didn't care at that klik. 

A warm, happy little glossa lapped up his neck and across his face. It was gross, disgusting, but it didn't matter. Bob was alive. 

Purring engines settled close to Sunstreaker's helm as the lurker crouched down. The golden mech looked up at the Swarm haunched over his frame. It wasn't attacking. It just observed him, like it had always done. 

Sunstreaker opened and closed his mouth, searching for something, anything, to say. After a klik, he sat up and stared straight at the Swarm. "Why?"

It's two, orange optics stared intently into his own. Rows of sharp denta formed a thick line around its dermaless mouth. It shifted closer and ran the back of a servo down Sunstreaker's arm. 

The golden mech was proud of himself for not flinching away. Its armor was different in a strange way that made his plating crawl where it touched him. But that touch was deliberate.

Affectionate.

As Bob happily cuddled close to his chassis and the lurker reached back to pick up the fallen item, Sunstreaker knew things were going to get odd. The fact that he was handed the fuel tank of Bob's attacker and encouraged to drink made him realize his life was going to take a turn for the strange. 


	10. Chapter 10

Sunstreaker woke from a light doze when the hack-job of a door to his little fort was peeled away. The large form he had wittily named "Bruce" filled the opening he created. What? The fierce Swarm silently watched over them like that man-bat that was all the craze on Earth. So what if he liked names that start with "B"?

Apparently, scavenger Swarm littered the area, drawn in by the scent of the carcasses further in the city. Since their official meeting of sorts, Bruce started bringing fresh kills every orn--if they were smaller, he'd bring two. 

That meant Sunstreaker wasn't starving to death thanks to the meal deliveries. Needless to say, Bob was quite friendly with the big Swarm for happy-gorging reasons. His little frame would skitter on and around his large brother while Bruce silently watched Sunstreaker go about his orn. 

Not that there was much for a cripple to do in his fort-turned-cave besides stare out at the decrepit city and try to teach Bob fetch. The bug really had trouble with the concept of bringing the piece of scrap back to him instead of eating it. 

There was always the option of sneaking nervous glances at Bruce. But, well, that usually never ended well. It made the Swarm get entirely too _friendly._  Sunstreaker carefully avoided optic contact as Bruce pushed a sloshing fuel tank into his servos. 

The Swarm were built with multiple tanks in their frames so they could break down material into fuel more efficiently. The first tank broke down materials into a fine consistency, and the others broke it down even further with acids naturally generated in their frames. The dangers of scrap metal bits and foreign contaminates in the preprocessed energon reduced to less than 0.01% in the last tank, a consistency well within the tolerance range of a normal mech. That tank was where the ready-to-use fuel was stored and eventually siphoned into fuel lines. 

It was kind of funny how he didn't mind the taste of warm fuel from a tank. The preprocessed energon was almost the same as energon fresh from a factory if you compared the way both were processed. 

Except when the Swarm fed on mechs or other functioning things. That was a bit different than refining energon crystals. It left a bit of an aftertaste that he was regrettably getting used to. 

"Thanks," Sunstreaker mumbled, taking the offered container of fuel. Elongated claws faintly brushing across his digits caused him to nearly lose his grip. He distracted himself from Bruce's intense stare by shotgunning the fuel. 

So, minor harassments aside, things were going better than expected. Sunstreaker was alive. Bob was alive and happy. Bruce was content with feeding him and watching over him like he was some kind of pet. Ironhide might be alive and on his way back...

Sunstreaker shot a quick glance at the large Swarm crouched close to his side. A deep chirr rumbled from Bruce's chest--he must have seen the sneaked peek. The Swarm leaned forward and nuzzled his helm lovingly against the golden mech's. Sunstreaker froze; a mandible caressed his cheekplate. 

He _really_ hoped Ironhide would save his aft soon. 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many views and responses in so little time. You all floor this writer! Thank you, everyone!

A light touch to his midsection brought Sunstreaker out of recharge. A sniff tickled his exposed side, and he blindly swatted it away. Groaning, he curled on his side and covered his helm with his arm. The ground was hard and lumpy. It did nothing to help the grumpy mood he woke up in. 

The shuffling behind Sunstreaker's back was stubbornly ignored. He knew what was back there, and, quite frankly, he was in no mood this early. He was just going to lay there on the horridly uncomfortable ground and ignore a certain Swarm. Because opening his optics lead to awkwardness he really, really didn't feel like dealing with at that klik. 

A heavy wash of warm exvents chased a chill down his backstruts. Bruce really needed to learn about personal space. 

At the first sound Sunstreaker made each morning--be it a grunt when sitting up or a heavy exvent to clear collected dust from his vents--Bruce was suddenly _there._ Right in his faceplate. Getting an up close and personal view of a Swarm's mug was not the best wake up call for an exterminator.

Well, alright. Bob was an exception. 

But Bruce liked to have recognition in the morning. Usually just a quick "'Morning" sufficed to quell his need for attention. But friendly talking leads to many unwanted things. Like more-than-friendly physical contact. 

The golden mech decided to try his shot with an unfriendly greeting. "Go away," he huffed from under his arm. "I'm recharging."

His new reaction must have intrigued Bruce, because the Swarm made a curious click. The back of a digit ran down Sunstreaker's arm slowly like so many other mornings. It sent tingly prickles through his plating. 

If at first you don't succeed, try again. Scowling, Sunstreaker jerked his body away from the touch and spat, "I'm not in the mood, Bruce. Go away."

A heavy silence followed that slowly put Sunstreaker on edge. Did he push his luck? Was Bruce going to dismantle him now?

Suddenly, there was movement. 

Groans of bending metal echoed loudly in the little concave structure. Sunstreaker looked up sharply and caught a glimpse of the sky before it was blotted out by dark metal. "Unf!" he grunted as Bruce's climbed on top of his frame. There was shifting and wiggling, but no gnawing. Somehow, Sunstreaker ended up lying on his stomach with a big Swarm almost completely encasing his frame. 

There was a heavy, contented exvent over his pinned form. Apparently Bruce _wasn't_ going to destroy him. 

"Bruce..." Sunstreaker groaned, muffled beneath the happily rumbling cuddle pile. The large Swarm onlined his optics inside his little self-made tent of a frame. He didn't look as scary upside down for some odd reason. Maybe it was because Sunstreaker couldn't see his denta at this angle?

But frag, the bug was _big._ Only Sunstreaker's peds were sticking out behind the Swarm's aft the way Bruce curled his limbs to his chassis. 

"Bruce, no," he tried. It got him a curious click, and Bruce compacted a little to cuddle the mech closer. The answering shifty nearly qualified as a hump. "B-Bruce!" 

The heat collecting between their frames wasn't implicative of anything besides natural expulsions of pent-up warmth. Right. So the trapped mech sighed mightily in defeat. He let his helm fall to the ground with a light thunk. "So, what? Are you gonna cuddle me all morning?" The orange lighting in the Swarm-shell shifted, indicating that Bruce tilted his helm, possibly in contemplation. 

It grew hot steadily through the morning. Sunstreaker tried to push his way out from what could very easily turn from an awkward situation to downright uncomfortable. 

Normally, a mech getting pinned under something wasn't too much cause for alarm so long as he wasn't being crushed or anything. But Bruce was happy. And, as Sunstreaker had found out, happy Swarm have this tendency to _purr._ Purring causes _vibrations._ And this was becoming a _very serious problem_ with how Bruce was pressed against his frame. 

When a mech thinks about becoming paralyzed, it's normal to worry about mobility, self-maintenance, and depending on others. These are very valid concerns--extreme life changes happen when a mech becomes a cripple. But one thing few mechs worry about is interface life after the fact.

Sunstreaker found this out shortly after he was released from the medbay. Everyone was so careful with him, as the slightest touch would break him. After many failed attempts at getting some aft, he realized his friends basically thought his spike was chopped off in the accident. Frag. He could still get it up for pits sake. 

Sweet vibrations tickled down Sunstreaker's spinal column, straight to his upturned aft. His valve clenched on nothing, his spike swelled in its casing

The golden mech closed his optics tightly and clenched his servos. Bruce was on his back, not a mech. So what if he'd not had any since before Earth? Going without for a quarter vorn was nothing. Besides, Bruce was a Swarm. That'd be like getting off on cuddles with Bob. 

Sunstreaker sighed in relief as that thought process staved off the rising charge. He could think of it like Bob trying to cuddle with him. One big, extremely touchy Bob that was happily licking his audio fins. Sunstreaker frantically pushed away from the wandering glossa, pushing himself back onto his knees. Ever the one to accommodate, Bruce shifted back and settled his weight on Sunstreaker once more. 

This had the unfortunate effect of pinning the mech on his elbows and knees, pressing his aft against what he sincerely hoped _wasn't_ Bruce's interface panel. The Swarm purred happily at the new position, but paused. He shifted, grinding his warming panel against Sunstreaker's, and purred harder than before. 

Sunstreaker bit his fist to hold back a whimper. He silently vowed to make Ironhide's life a living pit for taking so fragging long to get back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Know what gets rid of grumpies? Cuddles! Humping tends to help, too!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's where the rating goes up!

The dry humping from that morning held nothing to what Sunstreaker was forced to endure two orns later. The golden mech collapsed into a jittery, strutless pile unable to even keep his chassis up. Bruce left after finishing with him, likely to go get some food for them after such a...rigorous workout. Sunstreaker cupped his sopping wet panel and keened softly from overstimulation. 

He learned two things over the past two orns, the first of which was fairly innocent: Bruce liked to fly. No really, he had this weird obsession of saddling Sunstreaker on his back and flying around for joors on end. Bob would wriggle in between Bruce's shoulder spikes and gleefully hang on for dear life. Though, the wind speeds from the flight made his little antenna slick back at a weird angle. It took a while before they flopped back into their normal position after the three landed. 

So, Bruce liked to fly. That was fine. Sure. Wonderful even. Bruce could go fly into a steel wall for all he cared. 

The second discovery was that Bruce had a fascination with getting Sunstreaker charged. Incredibly, processor-blowingly _charged._ There was no reason for it. None at all! Sunstreaker learned this on the second orn of their flying adventures. 

Primus, the vibrations. 

Sunstreaker sat nestled between Bruce's wings during their joy rides. He was starting to wonder if getting molested by curious mandibles while carried bridal-style was worse than having a high-performance engine rumble straight into his interface equipment.  

One of his panels retracted of its own accord. Groaning, Sunstreaker clenched his servos over his exposed valve. He remembered the worst of it so clearly in his charge-crazed state. 

A pocket of low density atmosphere made them drop suddenly. Heavy beats of wings to compensate for the sudden drop sent strut-shaking vibrations through Sunstreaker's pelvis. It was enough to make him clench harder on Bruce's back fringe held tightly in his servos and bite his glossa to hold back a moan. 

Thunderous wing beats sounding nearby broke the mech out of his memories; Bruce was almost back. Sunstreaker quickly pulled his wandering servo away from his valve and manually pulled the cover closed. There was no way the bug could have missed his close call of a guilty indulgence, not with how soaked Sunstreaker's abdominal plating was. "W-What?" Sunstreaker gruffed, helm turned to the side. He lifted his frame to a seated position and pushed himself back from Bruce. 

The fresh kill the Swarm brought was dumped to the side. Bruce knelt down and took hold of Sunstreaker's wrist. That accursed glossa slipped out between dagger-like denta and lapped at a black seam on the golden mech's arm.

Sunstreaker swallowed dryly, hazy blue optics drawn to the display. His arm was twisted in Bruce's grasp to showcase a bead of lubricant smeared in his forearm. That long, dexterous glossa slid up and around the droplet, leaving it untouched. Sunstreaker's vents quivered and he tried to pull himself back. 

The clawed servo on his wrist tightened, blocking his retreat.  Bruce growled softly and slid the wet length slowly up the upturned arm again. This time, the small bead of lubricant was captured on the tip of the Swarm's glossa. The moist, flexible appendage slowly slithered back into Bruce's awaiting mouth. 

Panting, Sunstreaker stared with optics half-shuttered. His chest heaved to pull in cooling vents as Bruce leaned to the side and effortlessly ripped the fuel tank from the cooling carcass at their side. 

This wasn't right. How could a bug, a Swarm, get him this worked up? Why would it try to seduce him like this? If Bruce wanted to frag him, wouldn't the mindless glitch just mount him and be done with it? 

The tank was pressed to Sunstreaker's derma and lifted. He turned his helm away in stubborn refusal, resulting in a small dribble of preprocessed energon running down his chassis. 

Bruce clicked in reprimand and leaned forward, running that wicked glossa down his chassis. It slipped over his cheek and curled around his neck cables. The warm sensation forced Sunstreaker to gasp and lean back further as sharp denta grazed the delicate junction of his neck and chassis. 

The tank was pressed to his mouth again, and Sunstreaker took a long pull. He was rewarded with a pleaded purr. Leaning up, Bruce cupped his second servo around Sunstreaker's helm and guided it back. A small puncture was made to the top of the tank, and the energon poured freely through the opening pressed to the golden mech's derma.  

Sunstreaker's unfocused optics stared skyward. Could he fight? Would he even stand a chance? Small trails of tears leaked out of his optics as he obediently swallowed mouthful after mouthful of the syrupy substance. The tank lifted higher, forcing more of the thick energon down his intakes. Sunstreaker keened softly. He pulled one arm away from supporting his frame and weakly touched the servo cupping his helm. 

Nothing made sense. Why was Bruce doing this? He choked on a large mouthful, dribbles of energon leaking past his derma. The tank was pulled back to give him room to breathe. "N-No more," he croaked out, begging softly. But the grip on his helm was unrelenting. Sunstreaker whimpered as the tank was pressed to his derma again. He choked twice more before the large tank was emptied into his own; Bruce persistently forced it all down his intakes. 

The golden mech was gently eased down onto his back. Servos lifted his legs up, knees pressing into his chestplate. Sunstreaker keened sharply at the mixture of soft, wet warmth and nipping bits running up his thighs, toward his interface panel. Bruce took his time savoring the residue from their earlier ride. 

That traitorous panel slid back to reveal the mech's sopping valve. Sunstreaker panted, torn between trying to push Bruce's helm away or pulling it down. His digits dug into the ground when the Swarm pressed his mouth down, glossa slipping into the quivering depths and mandibles running along lubricant slickened folds. It felt like nothing he had ever experienced before. The glossa slipped in and out of his valve rapidly, slurping out his fluids hungrily. With each penetration, it slid in deeper for more nourishment. 

Sunstreaker cried out. He felt the opening of his gestation chamber spasm when it was jabbed by that long, hungry appendage. Bruce thrust his glossa in once more, growling hard while flicking at the opening. It was too much! Sunstreaker pushed his helm back into the dirt, arching his backstruts. He was going to--

All at once, Bruce pulled his face free of Sunstreaker's valve and mounted his frame. Unsupported, the golden mech's legs fell limp to the side, giving room for Bruce to press between them. Scorching, heavy exvents blew down Sunstreaker's shaking form, and a clawed servo shakily forced his valve cover closed. Bruce ground his panel against Sunstreaker's and buried his face in his neck. 

Dazed, the mech stared up over Bruce's shoulder. The heavy charge ramping through his system made it hard to think. All he knew was that he didn't overload, Bruce didn't overload, and they both _really_ needed to overload. 

"B-Bruce," Sunstreaker panted. He tried to grab at something, anything, but clawed servos pinned his wrists to the ground. 

"Don't stop," Sunstreaker begged incoherently. "Please, don't stop!" 

The Swarm slowly slid their frames together. The charge between them snapped angrily. But no matter how Sunstreaker squirmed, Bruce wouldn't finish what he started. Instead, he ground, growled, and felt up the golden mech to near overload time and time again. 

He realized why he was force-fed on the eighth overload denial. It was going to be a long night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops. Text got cut off.


	13. Chapter 13

Once more, the events of the previous orn led to nothing more than shameless humping that left Sunstreaker aching for what he should want nothing of. It took so long to figure out what Bruce was really doing, but Sunstreaker wasn't blind; he knew what consequences would come of everything built up to this point. 

Bruce was _intelligent._ Frightfully so. The stalking cowed his target to a small, secluded area where the pieces of the trap fell into place. The quiet observance for orns on end gave Sunstreaker a chance to relax in his new surroundings. The fearless defense against hostile threats showed his ability to protect. The bold display of hunting more than enough game showcased his capability to provide for _more_ than just his intended. And, last but not least, the ability to not only arouse, but keep Sunstreaker on edge for joors at a time emphasized his determination to properly do what he worked so hard. 

Because there usually wasn't any middle ground when it came to making a sparkling--it was either right, or it was wrong. 

Bruce slowly but surely pushed him into a heat cycle over the course of three deca-cycles. Laying within his destroyed fort, Sunstreaker stared up at the decrepit city that had been his home and entrapment. Ironhide hadn't made it back to civilization. If he had, the rescue team would have arrived orns ago. 

If he had made it back, Sunstreaker wouldn't be running with a constant half-charge, the indicator of a nearing heat cycle. Black and gold digits traced a ghost's path across the swelling midsection preparing for the possible little one. He wasn't carrying, not yet anyway, but that would change when he reached his full heat. 

Cybertronians were created to be replicable through a two-stage process. In order to reproduce, the chosen "carrier" mech must be supplied with sufficient nanite-rich transfluid from one or several "creator" mechs. 

Time of little physical activity must then be given for an extremely small, basic frame to develop within the carrier's gestation chamber. This is a stage where the carrier becomes very vulnerable. The process requires substantial nutrients to the point of starving the carrier if energon or minerals are lacking. 

Nervousness fluttered through Sunstreaker's spark. Would he be able to create a frame? How could one as sparkless as himself create life? His helm turned to the side and he stared tiredly at the large companion recharging serenely by his side. The arm thrown possessively across his chassis was almost comforting. What would Bruce do with him if he truly did manage to conceive?

Frenzied scuttles drew Sunstreaker's attention to the outside. Bob raced as fast as his little peds let him across the bumpy terrain. It was almost comical how he bound over his master's frame and flew helm first into the large Swarm's side. 

Grunting, Bruce resisted onlining, choosing instead to snuggle closer to Sunstreaker's frame. 

The little swarm had none of that. His plating bristled, and he shook his aft violently while spitting clicks and chirrs that probably weren't too polite. Sunstreaker couldn't help buy grin with pride at his bug's antics. 

But a finite buzz had Bruce's helm shooting up. He sniffed the air skeptically and made to squabble right back. 

Then, a deafening roar from the distance made all three freeze. 

Sunstreaker gasped as he was quickly scooped up. Bob clambered up onto the large Swarm's shoulder just as they were taking off. The grip on his frame was hard, protective, as they sped low to the ground across the scraggly terrain. 

That easily identifiable sound had been bashed into the golden mech's processor in his early training. It meant death if one didn't move quickly. Sunstreaker looked back, behind Bruce's rapid wing beats. A screaming cloud of black settled over the remains of the city they had just fled from.


	14. Chapter 14

Once they were clear of the swarm's observance range, the trio flew high in the sky to avoid the small cluster of nests they ran across. It was safer that way; they were safe in Bruce's strong hold. Wind whipped fiercely at high altitudes, sending frigid air streams through Sunstreaker's frame. He was shaking violently, but it wasn't due to the cold. 

Pale blue optics stared down at the blurred scenery below. 

Sunstreaker was exhausted. It was as if all the energy was being sapped out of his frame, the energon sucked from his lines. His limbs grew heavier by the breem. It quickly became a struggle to hold his helm upright. Gut-clenching nervousness only compounded the ailments.  

Sunstreaker's helm curled into Bruce's chest in a subconscious plea for comfort. The sound of thrashing winds, pumping wings, and a steadily rumbling engine soothed the golden mech as darkness blanketed his processor. 

~-~-~

The world seemed to tilt dangerously when Sunstreaker was rudely pulled back to consciousness. Judging by the sensations along his frame, he was being moved, likely set on the ground based on the bumpy surface beneath his legs and aft. It was hard to focus on staying upright. A tedious klik without support resulted in his systems registering a soft impact along his shoulder. His helm spun wildly. 

Apparently, vertigo _sucked._  

Sunstreaker refused to open his optics for fear of making it worse. But someone--Bruce--was back, lifting up his helm with slick servos. Claws accidentally grazed the back of his neck and he gasped at the sheer sensation flux from the featherlight touch. It made his spark spin fast and his fuel pump churn harder. 

Then, wetness touched his lips. A fuel tank. Praise Primus! Sunstreaker sucked hungrily from the fuel tank that served as his anchor to the world. He inhaled the feast with a vigor not his own, spurred faster by the overwhelming pleasure of choking down as much as his frame allowed. Small sips made his glossa feel swollen in his empty mouth, while painfully large gulps made his throat tubing flex and shudder in a way that made him moan between mouthfuls. 

The empty tank was pulled away. Sunstreaker keened softly at its loss while he was lowered to the ground. There was movement at his side, but it didn't matter compared to the fire growing in his chassis. When Sunstreaker was lifted into the biting air once more, he welcomed it as a balm to his warming frame. A heavy, non-existent weight settled over him when a small notification appeared in his HUD:

  
_Mating Protocols: Initialized_  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sex next chapter.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sweet Primus. A lot of people seem to like this fic. I think everyone was just waiting for this chapter. There were almost 400 hits between the last chapter's posting and this one. You pervs. c:
> 
> I don't usually say this about my own work, but.
> 
> Guh. I need a cold shower. 
> 
> GRAPHIC. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Resetting his optics once, twice, Sunstreaker attempted to figure out where he had been set down. Perhaps it was the heat that made his vision blurry? Every part of his frame was hot in ways that he had never experienced before. Even the explosion that crippled him was freezing compared to the fire that flowed through his lines. 

The soft surface Sunstreaker found himself on felt gloriously cool. He turned onto his back and sprawled out unashamedly against its soothing surface, attempting to cool his warm frame. The action made a nearby engine choke off suddenly from an aroused rev. Startled, Sunstreaker blearily looked up at Bruce crouched just on the outside of what appeared to be a billowy curtain. 

It was an alcove made of pliable metal, he realized. The dark room beyond the small entrance looked to be larger, but Sunstreaker's attention was focused elsewhere; his every sensor was riveted on the thin, individual strands of filament hanging from the mouth of the den's opening and how they swayed softly with each heavy ventilation Bruce made from the other side. Those wafting strings were all that separated their smoldering, overcharged frames. 

Warmth flooded Sunstreaker in realization. This was it. 

Bruce hovered just outside the small entrance as if waiting for him to say something, anything. Sunstreaker couldn't vocalize, a swell of emotions choking him. 

The Swarm crouched lower, showcasing his spiked backside for the prone mech to see. Plating shifted, folding to the side, as a pair of semitransparent wings unfurled. They were large, befitting of a creature so massive. 

Nervous blue optics widened in subconscious interest--Sunstreaker had never witnessed the transformation before, too nervous of getting caught. Flight appendages raised slowly, deliberately; Bruce's unnerving orange glow focused sharply on his every reaction. One wing stiffened while the other flexed at an angle. 

A light, melodic chirp was the result. Sunstreaker's fans ground to a shrieking halt and had to be forcefully restarted. Another careful stroke of wings created a note that wavered softly. A shiver shook the golden mech's frame; Bruce was... It was almost as if he was...

Singing. For Sunstreaker. 

The notes grew bolder with each passing klik. A breathtaking song for him and him alone weaved its way through the small nest. The golden Lamborghini squirmed in embarrassment as his arousal skyrocketed to the point where his valve clenched tightly, slipping over its slickened walls. He gripped the soft surface he rested upon between weak servos as the vibrations of the courting song made his plating pulse deliciously.

The massive Swarm crested the entrance in a slow stalk as if to not startle his intended away. Chest heaving, Sunstreaker keened in dismayed arousal when Bruce paused above him, suspended above his frame with soft notes still chirping. 

"N-No, you can't..." Sunstreaker whimpered. "I-- We can't..."

But the Swarm's burning orange optics were fiercely determined. He lowered his helm at Sunstreaker's midsection, nuzzling the area above the softly bulging, sparkling-ready gestation chamber reverently. The sheer sensuality of the action made Sunstreaker's valve cover snap open. 

Large servos effortlessly pulled the mech's to his knees. Sunstreaker sobbed, a mixture of apprehension and relief making his valve clench harder on itself. He didn't look back when he heard Bruce's plating shift. Fear of being impaled instantly and fragged into the ground made Sunstreaker scrunch his face, causing tears to roll down his cheekplates. 

A small, barely there presence pushed past his swollen entrance. Sunstreaker started in shock when Bruce's hips ground against his aft. The spike (if it could be called that) was smaller than a digit and just as thin. Shallow thrusts gently rocked his frame. The claws holding his hips upright tightened fractionally when Bruce's thrusts increased in speed. 

Was this really happening?

Sunstreaker's valve spasmed when the small intrusion shot liquid deep into his channel. A deep sigh and full frame shiver at his back verified what he almost didn't want to believe. 

Really? That was _it?_

Primus. Sunstreaker's engine revved, valve squeezing desperately for the pleasure he was denied. The prone mech buried his helm in his arms, embarrassed frustration threatening to smother his arousal. What did he expect? Bruce was a _bug!_ Did he really hope the Swarm had a spike befitting his frame like it might a mech? Why did he even desire something like that?

The grip his valve had on the minuscule spike was loosening steadily. It was only a matter of time until the tiny prick swam in his loose channel. But the stubborn little appendage flexed in its roomy housing. Sunstreaker's helm shot up at the feeling if a slight pinch. The iris of the spike blossomed open and latched onto his interior lining, slowly spread him wider. Further and further his valve stretched to the point that it borderlined on pain. Bruce grunted and ground his hips against Sunstreaker's aft once more. This time, the Lamborghini felt _it._ That little 'spike' wasn't one at all. It was an extension to stretch the valve-mech. 

And, Primus, did it spread him wide. 

The head of the spike pushed through the semi-prepared entrance. With the spreader still hooked onto his first set of calipers, Sunstreaker felt a muted brush along his rim. But the gripping extension was thin, and it barely penetrated his channel, so it only took a shallow thrust for Bruce's massive spike to slide against his second ring of calipers. 

It hurt. The stretch hurt so wonderfully as the enormous spike slowly slid into his quivering depths. Bruce shifted, press his weight down on Sunstreaker's backstruts. It forced his chassis to the floor while an arm beneath his abdominal plating kept his aft raised. Bruce revved his engine hard; Sunstreaker dug his digits into the ground. 

The new position allowed the Swarm to thrust. They were short, shallow pumps to work the massive spike in deeper. It made his valve milk the intrusion hungrily. Their hips weren't making contact yet, but the spike's head brushed against the top of his valve. Each thrust drove the thickness deeper between his spread thighs.

Clenching his denta, Sunstreaker tilted his helm up. It hurt, but it felt amazing. When there was no more room to squeeze inside, Bruce grunted, pushing forward slowly but forcefully. Moaning from the intense stimulation to his sensitive upper valve, Sunstreaker barely even felt his mouth fall open. When the Swarm mounted over his frame thrust sharply, he didn't hear his own strangled moan or feel the trickle of oral fluids leak past his derma. 

All he could feel was that monstrous spike splitting him wide. 

More liquid warmth flooded his valve. His calipers loosened and allow the girth deeper. It spurred Bruce to pushing his weight down further on Sunstreaker's frame to buck harder. His helm pressed down to the ground under Bruce's heavy shoulder. 

There he was. Sunstreaker, the exterminator, was forcefully pinned down by one of the biggest Swarm he had ever laid optics on. Sunstreaker, the former frontliner, was being pounded into relentlessly by an abomination of a mechanical construct. Sunstreaker, the narcissistic aft, was being put into his place by someone he'd normally consider a lesser. 

Sunstreaker, the spark broken, lonely mech, was forcefully showered in the kind of affection and caring that he had dreamed of for all his function. 

He tried to convince himself how he didn't want this. It was so wrong. He didn't want to feel the hot length of a Swarm in his belly. He didn't want to carry the monstrosity's offspring. Carrying mechs were weak, feeble-minded things. 

Their hips finally ground together. He sobbed brokenly. Bruce stilled, wrapping his arms around Sunstreaker's chassis to cuddle their frames together in a tender display of affectionate.

He couldn't do this. But, at the same time, he wanted it so badly that it _hurt._  

A clawed servo cradled Sunstreaker's chest, hooked onto his shoulder. The other arm resumed its position under his slightly swollen belly. Sunstreaker whimpered as the spike slid slowly, completely, out of his valve. Tremors wracked his frame at the feel of the spreader holding him open being the only thing locking their interface arrays together. Unobstructed, Bruce thrust in a little faster, brushing against his valve's ceiling. Another withdraw and sheath made Sunstreaker shake. A quick snap of hips lurched his frame forward and filled his vision with static. 

Bruce fragged him hard into the ground. Somehow, being pinned made lubricant collect thickly in Sunstreaker's channel. He gasped harder for ventilations while being mercilessly dominated. It was arousing in ways it shouldn't have been. But when Bruce growled deeply, _possessively,_ Sunstreaker overloaded harder than he ever had in his existence. 

His garbled scream of release made the Swarm slam even harder into his spasming valve. Two forceful thrusts and a deliberate _twist_ had Sunstreaker shrieking his release a second time in under a klik. He could feel every plate vibrate, every tube in his frame pump energon harder. 

Then, Bruce raised his wings. A deafening torrent of wind filled the small den, but the vibrations traveled down Sunstreaker's back and straight into the recesses of his valve. His vocalizer shorted out with the force of his third overload in a single klik. Bruce followed shortly after with a bruising thrust and a satisfied rumble. 

A flood of heat filled Sunstreaker's valve past the point of overflowing. Cooling fans revving at their highest settings could be heard between intermittent gasps and deep, contented chirrs. Utterly exhausted, the filled mech let his Swarm suitor support his frame.

After several breems, the massive spike softened and started retreating back into its housing. Sunstreaker tried to pull himself free of Bruce's grasp to settle down more comfortably. 

Warmth spread across the golden mechs beautiful faceplates at the realization that the fluids could not escape--the spreader that joined their frames locked the nanite-rich transfluid to the funnel of a valve connected to his gestation chamber. What was worse was that the sheer volume of liquid actually extended up into the Swarm's spike housing. 

And Bruce seemed positively _titillated_ by that fact. 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and future references of rape are not meant to mock the serious subject. Rape is rape no matter what form it comes in. Some victims or observers see it as "not as bad" as others, but that doesn't mean they weren't raped. For Sunstreaker, playing down his experience is a method of denial/coping.

Searing pain. 

He was bound on his front, repeatedly filled with disciplining thrusts. Nausea squeezed his fuel tank, threatening purge if the jostling didn't cease. His spark flickered and flared desperately for reassurance from the other half of his bond. 

The beast on him was driven by his own agenda. Pleasure didn't matter now that he was sparked. It wasn't like this their first time; he was cared for, loved, before his belly started distending in proof of the sparklings he carried. 

The fierce, triumphant growl at his back made him whimper. Why would he save him only to cause even more harm? Was it for the money? Was it to hurt his new mate? 

Thrusts quickened to the point that his vision filled with static from the pain. A grunt, and warmth seeped into his deep recesses. But even as the pain of the events and the relief of a short reprieve sapped away his consciousness, his true sadness was not for himself. 

His spark broke knowing that this ongoing nightmare would likely be one of his sparklings' first memories.  

~-~-~

Sunstreaker thrashed violently in recharge, memory fluxes making his systems burn hot in an unconscious attempt to flee from his night terrors. Waking at the commotion, the form at his side launched itself on top of his frame protectively. The sudden weight in the physical world sent Sunstreaker screaming into waking. He thrashed desperately to push the assailant away as his logic processes sluggishly initialized. 

"No! No!" Sunstreaker shouted. His flailing arms were captured and pinned to his sides to prevent self-harm. Whited-out optics shot online and stared sightless at the ghostly tormentor above. "No! Please, no more!"

The frame above his own stuttered a chitter worriedly, then the bulk curled protectively over his own. Sunstreaker was fully pinned, unable to shift more than small increments. He sobbed brokenly when he realized he couldn't escape. Dull pain radiating from between his lax legs made the memory all too real. 

But the restraint slowly let his frame calm itself. Logic processors initialized; his optics gradually reverted to a light blue. A soft, rumbling nuzzle to his neck helped bring him back to reality. Sunstreaker stared up at the spiked shoulder pressed to his chin. The near-similarity of the situation had him straining in fear once more. 

Then, Bruce pulled back and stared down at him, worry evident in his optics. Sunstreaker felt the fear trickle out of his taxed systems. Bruce. His big, gentle guardian was over him, trying to protect him from his own memory files. 

Bruce wasn't his creator, and _he_ wasn't his carrier.

Taking a slow vent, Sunstreaker wiggled his arms free of the Swarm's wary grasp. He ran his servos roughly over his face to wipe away trails of tears. It had been a long time since he had been forced to endure that memory flux. While it wasn't his own, he could remember it as clearly as if it was. 

Rough knuckles carefully caressed his cheeks. Sunstreaker leaned into the touch without fear. Even though he was manipulated into carrying this creature's spawn, he strangely didn't feel raped or used. At least, not in the same sense. 

Black and yellow servos gently cupped Bruce's helm hovering uncertainly above his own. His digits traced over the upper and lower mandibles on each cheekplate in a soft caress that seemed to soothe the Spawn. 

Sunstreaker smiled softly. The shift in his faceplates made a fresh stream of tears fall down the sides of his upturned helm. "You're always there to save me, huh?" The Swarm nuzzled his servos affectionately. Orange optics observed him critically, as if searching for any possible injury. 

Bruce was so worried about him. He _cared_ for him in ways that no one else had. 

Wrapping his arms around Bruce's neck, Sunstreaker pulled himself up and embraced the large bug tightly. The moment drew out silently, the action having made the Swarm shift uneasily. Bruce leaned forward and backward in aborted attempts to react to the situation. He didn't seem to have the faintest idea on how to react to Sunstreaker's sudden mood change. It made the golden mech laugh softly for some strange reason. "When hugged by another, one generally reciprocated the gesture," he supplied with a small smile. 

With observant optics, Bruce tilted his helm in what was likely confusion. Sunstreaker took hold of Bruce's arms and slowly wrapped them around his frame. The hold was stiff and uncomfortable, but it was still a hug. He rested his helm on Bruce's shoulder and sighed. "Stupid bug..." 

As if on cue, little scuttles sounded at the opening of the small den. Bob's smaller frame skidded to a halt behind his frame, and a little muzzle barely bumped into his back. The slight offense to his persons made Bruce chitter-clack irritably over Sunstreaker's shoulder. Bob was nudged out of the way, snippy reprimands falling on deaf little audios as Bob tried to climb over, under, and around Bruce's outstretched arm to get to his master. 

Chuckling at their antics, Sunstreaker tiredly pulled away and eased himself onto his back. The little bug was pretty hard to deter when he set his optics on something.  

A light at the opening to the den caught Sunstreaker's attention. Sharp, red optics stared directly into his own. There, standing at the opening, was a jet black Decepticon. 

Smile twisting to a scowl, Sunstreaker snapped, "Just what the frag are you staring at?" 

The drying tears on his face didn't matter. Even though he was fatigued from the remainders of his heat, even though his gestation chamber exhausted his resources to create life, he wasn't _weak._ Crippled carrier or not, Sunstreaker was still Sunstreaker. Decepticons be damned. 

His reaction seemed to amuse the 'Con. Crossing both pairs of arms, the black mech smirked over his frame at the large Swarm. "Good choice."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decepticreep isn't an OC. If someone can guess who it is before the name is revealed, I'll write a pairing if your choice (cuddles, smut, or general, your choice!)
> 
> Tip: He has a job related to sparklings and he is in the IDW verse.
> 
> Update: I'll give everyone 2 guesses. This one might be hard!
> 
> Update 2: Guessing is over. We have a winner! The Decepticon is Flatline.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER WAS PAINFUL. Headcanon gave me so much trouble with it. I'm still not sure I like it. *-*
> 
> Rotorhead: I will try to get your fic out there soon. Please forgive the delay!
> 
> NinjaPet: You still need to claim your prize!

A deeply founded fear made Sunstreaker's tanks churn irritably despite his outward appearance of haughty confidence. Bruce rose to a crouch, crawled over his frame and climbed out of the nest, parting the barrier between the areas. Those little wiggly curtains Sunstreaker liked so much must have worked as a darkening screen in the den, because it was obnoxiously bright in the larger area. Slits of light cast over his frame, highlighting the remaining yellow plating intermingled with shiny slashes of silver of healed wounds. Sunstreaker kept his gaze locked on the black and red-trimmed mech for good measure, but his efforts went unnoticed.

"You were instructed to provide the breeder for analysis before clutching," the Decepticon bit out sharply, voice cold. Even though Bruce towered over the mech he stood patiently next to, the Swarm slumped down at the reprimand. Bruce clicked softly then looked back at Sunstreaker. Red, critical optics followed the look, and the Decepticon stared at Sunstreaker's prone frame. Something was muttered that didn't reach the golden mech's audios. 

Bruce moved out of the nest's limited line of vision, making the 'Con's undivided attention all the more threatening. A crippled, weakened mech sat in his small, barely defensible shelter while an unknown, likely hostile predator loomed just outside. 

How horrifically familiar. 

The telltale sound of an automatic door swished close. Did Bruce leave him? Coldness gripped Sunstreaker's spark. Was the Swarm done with him now that he got what he wanted?

A curious tilt overtook the black mech's helm. "I am Flatline," the 'Con said, tone odd, as he slowly stalked forward. Heavy duty scans washed over Sunstreaker's sensors, making his hackles raise. "I will be your medic." Clawed digits slipped through the transparent curtain and pulled them back enough to slip a helm inside.

The invasive scans intensified. "Your spark pulse is weak but rapid. A healthy mech has a quick, consistent pulse rate." Sunstreaker carefully edged himself away from the doorway. The remnants of his heat made him weak, and just the stress alone of the situation made him tired. There was nowhere to hide. His spark pulsed harder the more the creep analyzed him. "But yours is weak, and it flares under stress to compensate for what it lacks. How _promising."_

Flatline withdrew from the den and settled himself at a console across the room. Two pairs of servos typed rapidly across the responsive surface, and a flurry of activity erupted. A door in the main room opened and peds echoed foreboding steps along the metal floor. Sunstreaker shrank in on himself when a mech ducked into the den. He hissed in pain as he was forcefully pulled out by his arm. 

The medic refused to acknowledge Sunstreaker as two mechs picked up his struggling form and carried him across the large room. Frag the heat. He silently swore at his frame's weakened state. His weak struggling was hindered further by the temporary blindness of going from darkness to blinding light in a flail-filled klik. 

A cool, flat surface met his backside and servos pressed him down. "Let go of me you slag sucking, glitch-afted, pieces of scrap!" His threats fell on deaf audios. The pair worked in tandem to set straps and bindings to secure his frame. Sunstreaker exhausted quickly in their unrelenting hold. Panting, the mech stared blearily up at the light-eclipsed pair. The mechs securing him to the slab were cold, emotionless husks. Sunstreaker's fuel tank dropped when he realized what they were. 

Drones. They were what resulted from a bad carrying. 

Tendrils of fear constricted Sunstreaker's spark as he blinked rapidly at the bright lights overhead, looking back and forth between the blank stares of the drones. Pumping a carrier full of nanite-rich transfluid was the first step in creating a Cybertronian frame. While that did technically create life, the sparkling formed was not coded with any shred of sentience. Drones, as the Quintessons had dubbed their earliest creations, were sparked mechs that contained only the bare essential programming to fuel, recharge, and function as ordered. Programs and knowledge bases could be uploaded to these clean slate frames and integrated much more easily than the modern mech, making them prime workers during the Quintessons' early ventures. 

But the ancient working machines were built with memory banks and sparks designed to receive and remember outside information, be it direct orders by their master or experience such as: "putting digit in grinder equals damage." Cybertronians, as they were later dubbed, were machines meant to learn.

It was probably an accident when the early mechs learned how to create sparklings that retained some of the progenitors' memories. The process was rapidly adopted by the growing populace under their masters' orders. Vorns after the Quintessons left their creations to fend for themselves, mechkind's intelligence grew exponentially. It came to be that the creation of drones was an act of cruelty to the creation and public shame for the creators. Why would a carrier willingly create non-sentient life?

"C60-1704 has returned with a candidate." The Decepticon's sudden speech drew Sunstreaker's fear-brightened optics. Uncaring, the mech continued typing at his work station. "Testing will now begin to test its suitability for the project."

Testing? Sunstreaker's ventilations picked up, his chest heaving as the drones held down his frame. Did Primus hate him so much that he was going to be forced to be a lab rat a third time?

Gears ground at the helm of the berth and a large, mechanical extension rose up and over his frame. Long, silvery appendages unfurled from the device's bulbous mass one after another. Sunstreaker's helm shot left when the first arm activated. A penetrating scan made his plating crawl uncomfortably. The device circled his frame slowly, taking in every plate, cable, dent and scratch along his frame. 

Lashes strapped across his chassis, binding his shoulders, midsection, arms, and pelvis while efficiently leaving his swollen belly free. Sunstreaker's spark spun in fear at the realization that its protective chamber was also left accessible. He was going to be opened on this cold slab, exposed and prodded by another deranged Decepticon scientist. 

Finished with its rounds, the first extension folded away and gave room for another device. A stout, padded nub pressed against his sensitive plating and applied pressure. If the living metal didn't give, it gave a brief "ding" and moved on to the next location. But when a battered plate on his side buckled, a negative "bzzt" sounded and two more extensions unfurled from the mass above to examine the weakness. 

The golden mech whimpered quietly under the assault as it evolved past poking and prodding to taking samples from his metal and energon lines. The slight twinges of pain were a dull ache compared to his memory files. 

Sunstreaker told himself that he wouldn't cry; they wanted him to cry, to break. The other scientists strove to break him before. Could he go through this again? Another invasive prod--to his abdomen--made his filled gestation chamber ache. Could he bring life into this kind of miserable existence?

No, Sunstreaker realized he couldn't. But could he bear offlining himself knowing that he'd take his unborn creations with him? All he had to do was suffer until his servos were freed, then he could end it. He could open his spark chamber and snuff himself before they had to suffer. But the weak, tiny tugs on his spark were hard to ignore. Sunstreaker squeezed his light-blinded optics shut, letting the tears fall. 

Strange metal he had grown so used to brushed against the back of his digits. Darkness blotted out the terrifying brightness raining down its hate. A clawed servo slid into the hold of Sunstreaker's shaking, blunt digits. Lifeless machinery pulled away to give room for the massive Swarm. The golden mech looked up and felt his spark flare slightly at how Bruce loomed over him, protecting him from the device that scared him so.

He wasn't abandoned or forgotten. Bruce spoke his incomprehensible  Swarmspeak softly over his helm, nuzzling their forehelm together gently. Sunstreaker sobbed brokenly. It was loving, calming in a way he had never experienced before in any other mech. Even Sideswipe had never been so kind to him in his times if weakness, as few as they were. The Swarm's other servo brushed his tear-stained cheek lovingly, and Sunstreaker leaned into the touch without second thought.

Bruce always kept him safe.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers! I am so sorry it has been so long!
> 
> Primus this one was hard. Headcanon couldn't decide if this chapter was supposed to be crack or drama. I vetoed for slight drama with a side of porn. When headcanon gives you trouble, just write porn. That way everyone is happy! *flails*

Sitting in the tiny den, Sunstreaker frowned at his shaking servo. Sitting was the only way he kept himself marginally calm; it made him feel more in control of the situation regardless of the futility. Laying down meant experiments, pain. So when Bruce curled protectively around his back and snuggled him tightly, Sunstreaker did his best to relax in the temporary safety of his big bug's arms. 

That near miss had scared him more than he wanted to admit. It was just a scan of his frame and that of his unborn sparklings, or so the medic implied. Flatline seemed pleased enough with his readings to leave Sunstreaker alone--the Lamborghini recognized such a small reprieve as the temporary mercy it was. The tests wouldn't end. Tests wouldn't end until the subject offlined. 

Soft little nonsense clicked into Sunstreaker's audio as Bruce tried to coax the tension from his frame. The shaking slowly subsided down to minor quakes. Swallowing down the lump in his intakes, Sunstreaker relented to the overwhelming exhaustion that wracked his frame and cuddled closer to Bruce. It was best to relax while he could; he knew that terrifying experience was just the first of many to come. 

~-~-~

Energy flicked at Sunstreaker's derma invitingly, coaxing his mouth open before he even woke from the light recharge he fell into. Trickles of pure, clean energon danced across his glossa and down his intakes in a trail of liquid warmth. Heat curled in his tanks as the nourishing supply of fuel ticked idling processes back online. Sunstreaker cracked open his optics, casting a faint blue shine on the cube pressed to his derma. 

He was so tired. 

Bruce growled low at his back in a comforting manner. It was almost nice being cuddled and fed like a youngling even though it was more than a little embarrassing. Digits stroked his chest idly while he sipped his energon in a steady flow. 

There was light pressure on his abdominal plating. It was a soft touch, something he wasn't used to. Energon cubes were large by design, and with one right in his face he couldn't see past it to figure out what was going on. The Lamborghini lightly touched his digits to the servo holding the cube to his mouth, silently asking for it to be withdrawn, but the cube only raised higher to make him drink more. Small points of chilled wetness made him jerk in rising alarm. 

What was going on? 

Sunstreaker pushed at the arm by his helm and the second wrapped loosely around his chest. Bruce was fragging immovable when he wanted to be. Growing frantic, the golden mech twisted his frame, trying to see what was going on at his abdomen. Black armor caught in the edge of his vision before the servo on his chest cupped his throat and forced his helm back. Flatline was doing something, something Bruce didn't want him to know about. The hold on Sunstreaker's neck cables held still as steel in an unspoken order to continue drinking: Don't think about the Decepticon. 

There was no pain--yet. He had to focus on something else. Optics dimly lit, Sunstreaker stared up at Bruce, swallowing down steady gulps of energon that seemed to shimmer its way down his intakes. Energon. His vents wheezed appreciatively at the way the liquid slithered in his tank. It wasn't preprocessed or taken from another living being's lines. The taste was far too clean. He almost forgot what real energon tasted like. 

The cube tilted higher up, pushing Sunstreaker's helm further back. His distant gaze focused on the sharp, orange optics studying his faceplates. Usually, Sunstreaker was glad that Bruce didn't--or perhaps couldn't--speak Neocybex. What they had was already complicated enough without pointless words to muck it up. It was easy enough to understand how their "relationship" of sorts worked. Bruce ordered, Sunstreaker obeyed.

But at that klik he wanted more than anything else for Bruce to hold him close and promise him that they'd be okay. 

Flatline's touch didn't seem to linger more than necessary in any particular location. At least this 'Con wasn't a freak like some of his other comrades. More little splotched of coldness registered on Sunstreaker's plating around his gestation chamber by the time he finished off his second cube. It felt like small suction cups of some sort held thin wires to his frame. Medical overrides streamed across his HUD before he even realized Flatline had jacked into the hardline connection in his side. Sunstreaker pressed his servos over his spark chamber to try to hold off the command the medic entered, making the gears whirl sluggishly from the physical restraint. Sunstreaker felt his hands get pulled away and restrained by the medic. White light flickered on the ceiling brighter and brighter as his spark was slowly exposed. 

"Calm yourself, breeder," Flatline said bluntly. "You will injure yourself." The medic leaned forward as a large, flat sheet of metal wrapped around Sunstreaker's chassis. 

Relax? How could he relax when he was a restrained prisoner at the enemy's notorious lack of mercy? "Easy for you to say," he snarled out in an attempt to hide his fear. He hated how he sounded like a wounded glitchmouse hissing at a turbocat. 

Small clamps locked onto the edges of his armor to secure the pliable metal onto his chest. Sunstreaker jerked his arms as hard as he could, successfully dislocating the left wrist. Hissing in pain, he bit out, "You could at least say what you're going to do to me."

The grip on his neck loosened and Bruce grabbed his arms quickly. Sunstreaker jerked his helm down to see the metal plate bound over his chest, a thick cord of wires connected to it that coiled out of the den, and the medic kneeling between his legs. Flatline was smirking like he was the only mech in on the funniest joke in the universe. It reminded him enough of a certain red and black troublemaker that a physical lance of pain slashed through his circuitry.

The pain was shared through the hardline connection, but it made Flatline give him an intrigued look. Sunstreaker looked away with a shaky huff. What was he thinking? Puffs of air agitated the injured wrist Bruce sniffed at worriedly. Of course. The pain was just from his wrist. Duh.

The tense moment passed quickly thanks to the way Bruce fretted over Sunstreaker's awkwardly bent servo. "It's fine," the golden mech mumbled. The joint ached, but at least his servos were sort of free. "Just--" Sunstreaker's optics flared bright when Flatline leaned forward, took hold of the arm and cleanly snapped his wrist back in place. "...ow," he ground out.

"That was _your_ fault," the medic scolded with a frown. "And if you haven't figured it out already, we are going to spark you now." Flatline drawled as he showily picked up a remote and adjusted some settings.

Wait, 'we'? Sunstreaker pushed himself further into Bruce's lap. "What?"

"Oh, calm down. It won't hurt." Flatline turned a dial on the remote slightly. As if in second thought, the Decepticon added, "Well, shouldn't hurt. I need to know if it does." Flatline waggled the hardline connection between their frames as an explanation. 

Charge flitted along the metal plate bound to Sunstreaker's chest. Instantly, the metal clamped down, form fitting to his front aside from a fist-sized bubble over his spark chamber. Machinery in the main room hummed to life, and charge gathered inside the dome just above Sunstreaker's pulsing spark. 

"I would tell you to trust me, but you quite obviously have some sort of deep-seated reason to protect yourself." Flatline waved one of his small servos around as he spoke. "The sooner you relax, the sooner this ends."

The energy collected slowly in the device. It...wasn't as if he could escape this time.  Sunstreaker turned his helm to bury it in Bruce's neck. His spark flared intermittently as licks of living energy made brief contact with his most delicate inner workings. Each pulse of energy made the collection of barely-formed frames in his gestation chamber all the more apparent. He could feel each and every little empty frame as they greedily pulled energy to create newsparks. Optics clenching shut, Sunstreaker gasped into Bruce's neck cables. 

This was really happening.

It wasn't fast and hard like he first expected. Rather, the charge collected slow enough to suffuse his entire frame with a tingling warmth. The faux spark mingling with his own held no personality or sentience, but frag did it pulse expertly against his own. Soon Sunstreaker squirmed helplessly, the frameless spark pulsing a heady tattoo. He groaned softly as his charge ramped high enough to make his interface equipment pulse in time with his spark. 

There was movement. Sunstreaker distantly registered being laid down on his back and the feeling of the pliable den's floor dipping between his legs. Then, his legs were hiked up and hooked over what he hoped to Primus was a pair of big, bug shoulders. Sunstreaker threw his helm back and moaned in bliss at the familiar sensation of the Swarm's glossa lathing his hot panel eagerly. The first few licks made his valve squeeze on itself hungrily, causing lubricant to seep from the panel's edges. 

"That's a good breeder," Flatline said softly near Sunstreaker's helm. Charge tingled through the golden mech's frame at the sudden praise. "That's right. Open for your mate." 

The gentle words took the war-hardened mech so off guard that his interface panel slid away. Heated ventilation brushed against Sunstreaker's array and, before he could stop himself, his spike sprang up, eagerly begging for attention. Bruce's helm buried itself between his thighs to dive hungrily into his valve. Shivering at a pleased growl, Sunstreaker moaned low as the vibrations and electricity coiled its way up his spike as thought it was a lightning rod. 

"Stay with me," Flatline murmured, and soft clicks from the device could be heard. 

Overload slammed Sunstreaker hard like driving into a steel wall. Nothingness blanketed his processor before a tidal wave of euphoria danced its way from his helm fins down to his jerking interface array. His back bowed off the floor, pulling his pelvis away from the incredible overstimulation caused by that practiced glossa-fragging. But Bruce had none of that. With a fierce, dominate growl, the powerful Swarm locked his aft in the air and slid his long, writhing glossa back inside. 

_Oh._  Oh, he was... Bruce was using those big mandibles to spread and stimulate his folds. Sharp denta grazed the first ring of nodes in his exposed array. Helpless, Sunstreaker screamed in bliss. Claws bit into his thighs as Bruce glossa-fragged him hard enough to keep the overwhelming overload going. The Lamborghini grabbed blindly for something, /anything, to hold onto, but with his back bowed, aft held high, and shoulders pressed to the floor, he had nothing to anchor himself with. The spark flaring against his own continued to pour wave after wave of energy into his frame. 

A presence, small and weak, made itself known in Sunstreaker's gestation chamber, followed quickly by a second and third. He could feel their little sparks pull energy, thoughts, and emotions from his own. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before. 

"Two, three," Flatline mumbled to himself, then crooned, "Good, very good. We're almost halfway there." 

Silvery transfluid shot out of Sunstreaker's spike in thick spurts that flecked across his chassis. It was almost too much to take at once. Just as the energy ebbed, a fresh tsunami of power crashed over Sunstreaker's helm and drown him in bliss. 

Four, five, six little sparks sang in tune with his own. A servo caressed his helm, causing his spike to release another copious flood of fluid down its straining length. 

"And..." One last small jolt of energy ripped through Sunstreaker's frame, causing a seventh little spark to extend from his own. Electricity crackled and snapped angrily over his frame. Sunstreaker's vocalizer shorted out into a scream of silent bliss. The charge swelled up into the overload-scented air weighing heavily in the small den. 

Slowly, the golden mech lowered his back to the floor. Bruce followed, albeit reluctantly, and lowered Sunstreaker's raised aft to the floor. Which was wet. Sopping wet. Was that a puddle? Sunstreaker moaned softly as Bruce gave him one last lick for good measure. Why did the wet floor turn him on so much? His valve and spike pulsed hard in aftershocks of one of the best overloads of his life. 

"There. That wasn't so bad," Flatline said. "Now it's time for recharge."

Recharge? Sunstreaker stared up at Flatline with unfocused optics while the medic removed the equipment from his chest. The medical hardline still connected to his side streamed confusing codes. 

Before he knew it, his spark chamber was securely closed and a big, heated Swarm spooned him. There were still wires connected to his abdomen, but they didn't seem to cause any trouble. Sunstreaker sighed happily as he felt his processes idle down for recharge. Bruce's warm, purring engine was nice. 

Maybe things wouldn't be so bad? Maybe he wouldn't end up being a mad scientist's toy again?

Sunstreaker caught a glimpse of a new feature in his HUD before recharge claimed his consciousness. Status reports on seven little frames read positive numbers across the board. His frame fell slack, utterly relaxed against his mate. 

Just as recharge pulled him under, seven became eight.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small update! Many have been wondering where Bob disappeared to. If the writing seems odd it's because I was aiming for a "Bob" point of view.

Home. 

It was good to be home after traveling for so long outside. Noise was everywhere, and everywhere was noise. Scuttling peds padded quietly through a throng of Swarm with practiced ease. Large and small, simplistic in design and interestingly obscure frames swirled together in a tunnel going _this_ way. Bob darted quickly under the frame of a lumbering beetle-shaped sibling that was taking his time through the infested corridor. 

It must be good to not hurry; large sibling travels farther easier. The small Swarm straightened his frame with determination as he scurried along. But Bob must be quick when it is work time because he was small. Small was good, too. Bob climbed up a sloped, grimy wall and wriggled through a small crack. The opening led to another corridor going _that_ way. His helm brushed against the enlarged, glowing aft of one of his bright siblings. He squawked at Bob in offense and climbed higher on the soiled walls to provide lighting for the travelers. 

Wriggling his antenna, Bob scented the air for the closest way to the surface. _That_ way wasn't right, so returned to the last route. 

Big sibling, master's mate, said master was safe. Hive was safe, so big sibling told truth. Bob believed his Swarmkin would keep their hivemate safe while he was away. Now all Bob had to do was--

What was that? Bob spent a good three kliks chasing after a sibling that had a frame so shiny that he could see himself in it. A hard smack on his helm from said shiny made him wilt, but it also reminded him of his mission.

He continued on his journey. A feeding chamber near the surface provided the small Swarm with a tank full of enriched, semi-crystalized energon. It was tasty and crunchy, just how Bob loved it. Food tender siblings did good. Very tasty.

The surface was dark and quiet compared to the hive. Bob stilled at the crest of the flat, ground level opening and took a moment to absorb the sounds, scents, and vibrations of his home one more time. He would miss the dull roar, the good food, his siblings, and the comfort of home. But loud-noise hivemate was missing. 

With a puff of his armor--and a shiver because the surface was so much colder than home--Bob set out, snout to the ground, to find the missing member of his adopted family.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second update of the day! I've finally got my mojo back! Please excuse me while I beat a few more chapters out of Headcanon. Hah! I bet you didn't know it worked both ways! *flees with rolled up newspaper*

  _'Oh come on! Don't have a_ _litter of kittens!'_

Sunstreaker's left optic twitched when his processor helpfully reminded him of that idiotic Earth phrase. Eight sparklings-- _eight_ \--radiated happiness from their growing little sparks deep within his expanding abdomen. How in Primus' name could he have...

"Eight!" the irritated Lamborghini shouted angrily at Flatline, who startled slightly from the sudden outburst. Leaning against the den's wall, Sunstreaker crossed his arms and glared daggers at the medic kneeling between his legs. "They're going to explode out of my chassis." He was on Earth long enough to see Alien. It looked painful. 

"Quite the drama queen you are," Flatline tutted and resumed his scans. "You won't explode. Eight is only one more than the size of an average clutch. You will survive."

Cobalt optics narrowed in further irritation at how casually the Decepticon brushed off his concern. "I'll be deformed."

His response brought a quirk to the busily working medic's derma. "You will not be deformed. And even if you are, I'm sure--" Flatline paused to look at him, a distinct tease in those red optics. "What did you call him?"

Heat rushed to Sunstreaker's cheekplates as embarrassment threatened to consume him. He turned away with a huff and muttered, "Bruce." 

The Swarm mentioned chirred deeply, happy to be noticed for the first time in a while. Bruce had been resting with Sunstreaker for the past few orns since he had been sparked. It was almost sad how much the big bug craved his attention, but the Lamborghini had been studiously ignoring him. After all, it was that big lug's fault that he was carrying to begin with. Fragging eight!

"Ah, yes. _Bruce,"_ Flatline crooned in a way that drove Sunstreaker up a wall. "How precious."

Indignation finally pushed him over the edge. Throwing his torso forward, Sunstreaker lunged at Flatline with every bit of power that he had. Which wasn't saying much as a cripple. Sure, his fist slammed hard enough into the  wall--where Flatline _wasn't_ sitting to begin with--that the spot crackled and fizzed, but he didn't even come close to hitting the 'Con. Plus there was that embarrassing side effect where he fell flat on his face when his unresponsive legs decided to try and tie themselves into a bow when he was up and moving. 

Paralysis below the waist really sucked slag. 

The medic took advantage of his prone form, sending a high-frequency scan across his lower backstruts. "Anyway, Bruce will still gladly clutch you time and time again, regardless of whether or not you keep your form."

Groaning, Sunstreaker pressed his face to the floor and covered his helm. Moving hadn't been the best idea, and that scan made his tanks do backflips. He laid still, venting deeply, while the medic performed the rest of the medical tests. It was calm and quiet for long enough that the golden mech started to relax. 

"Why don't you use your legs?" Flatline asked suddenly, breaking the peace. 

Why didn't he use his legs? Sunstreaker glared down at the cool floor his helm rested against. Why, he didn't walk because he didn't want to, of course. Why else would he not move his legs? "Fragging Decepticons..." Sunstreaker swore under his breath. 

"I'm serious." The medic's sternness was unexpected. Suspiciously, Sunstreaker lifted his arm to stare under it at Flatline. All earlier fun and teasing was replaced by puzzlement on the other's features. For all of those scans and tests, how could the medic not understand? 

Sneering, Sunstreaker rudely bit out, "I got caught in an explosion that slagged up the circuitry in my back. I can't move my legs."

Analytical optics scanned his face as though searching for a lie. There was something strange about Flatline's expression, something that made him feel like he was missing something. Another scan triggered sensors in Sunstreaker's back, then the medic's shoulders slouched. Flatline slowly started gathering his tools. The 'Con asked distractedly, "What would you do if you could walk?"

The Lamborghini didn't even hesitate before saying, "If I could walk, I'd already be gone."

Flatline paused in picking up his last tool. A sharp, black digit ran around its silver handle in a thoughtful gesture. "Where would you go?" Why would he tell his enemy where he'd go? Rolling his optics, Sunstreaker moved to lower his arm back over his face, but paused when Flatline asked, "Can you really say eradicating Swarm was that fulfilling?"

Sharp, knowing optics stared holes into his paling blues. How could the medic know about him? He was just an Autobot tasked with the mission to kill as many Swarm as possible. There were hundreds like him out there. 

"You should take what has been offered to you in serious consideration. You could become a suitable broodcarrier," Flatline said then clambered through the den's curtained entrance. The medic paused on the other side, facing away. "And here, at least, you will have fewer reasons to cry yourself to recharge." 

Sunstreaker stared dumbly at the small entrance to the den, too shocked for words. How could the Decepticon know something like that? How... Startled, he jumped when Bruce ran a comforting servo down his back. He blinked and looked up at his large Swarm. Finally acknowledged, the bug happily scooted closer for cuddles.

Wait, wait. Broodcarrier?


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! It's the red mech everyone was wondering about!!
> 
> _::Bondspeak::_

_A few orns earlier, on Earth..._

Dissent grew in hushed whispers among the ranks on Earth. There had been trouble since Optimus Prime had put Bumblebee in charge and surrendered himself to Skywatch. Some of the Autobots respected the Prime and his decision, but many did not readily follow the younger, yellow leader as they should. It caused for a lot of infighting that a certain red hellion, surprisingly, didn't feel like joining in on. Rather, he didn't feel up to joining in on anything. 

The events of that accursed orn so long ago possessed Sideswipe's processor more often than not recently. He couldn't recharge, could barely refuel; even the thought of touching his small stash of elicite highgrade made him balk. All the cherry-red Lamborghini could do was think about how much he messed everything up between the two of them.

Sunstreaker... Sunny and him were close, closer than any other mechs out there. Sure, they fought with each other and had screaming matches over the stupidest slag, but that was just what came with being...together. They hated each other so much that they couldn't stand it. But they also loved more than words could express, more than what any of the other bonded pairs out there could dream of. 

An internal alarm blipped across Sideswipe's HUD in reminder of his ornly ritual. Cradling his helm in his servos, he focused on his ventilation instead of the brawl going on at the other end of the recroom. Each rotation of his aching spark slowed to a specific spin, _their_ frequency. His vents closed in concentration as he sent a single ping across the bond. There was no response for a long while; it was something expected considering how they were so far apart. To think, he worked so hard to get to Earth only to have Sunny disappear in a spark-wrenching rage once again. The distance between them made waiting harder and all the more painful. 

It usually took a breem before he received the standard denial of access response. But when the third breem passed, Sideswipe grew anxious with hope. Then, a small, barely recognizable ping returned from the other end. The request for contact wasn't denied...! He could, he could finally send a message!

Optics brightened, scanning back and forth blindly while Sideswipe desperately searched his files for the message he meant to send so long ago, back when it would have made a difference. He bundled the message as quickly as he could and sent it over the weak bond. 

_::Oh. Who is this?::_

Sideswipe's helm shot up in shock at the strange mech's bond-speech. While he could not audibly hear the other's vocalization, bond chatter held certain frequencies and pulses that were specific to each mech. 

Whoever the frag that was, it wasn't Sunstreaker.

Lag caused the messages to flow in slowly. _::A bondmate?::_ the intruding mech asked rhetorically. _::How very_ interesting. _::_

That wasn't Sunny. How was Sideswipe talking to this weird mech? Was he with him? Were they _together?_ Panic raced through Sideswipe's spark at what that could mean. His processor singled down on the most important question, _::Where is Sunny?!::_

Tank-churning amusement trickled across the connection a breem later. Something wasn't right. He could barely feel Sunstreaker at all! _::He is...alive,::_ the strange mech taunted, implying the worst. _::Do not come looking for him.::_

The connection cut off to the other mech's sheer glee. Sunstreaker's end of the bond locked up, denying the slew of pleas, demands, and swears that followed. Sideswipe shot up out of his chair and slammed his fists on the table. His helm hung down in numb horror at the possibilities.

Sunstreaker was in trouble. He had to find him. Optimus wouldn't let him save Sunny in the past, but maybe--maybe--Bumblebee wouldn't be so cold-sparked. Determined, Sidedwipe ran out of the recroom to find the small, yellow leader. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Err, oops? Wrong red mech. My bad!


	22. Chapter 22

The heat had passed some point between when Sunstreaker was sparked and when Flatline made that...observation about him, of sorts. Laying on his chest, Sunstreaker stared idly at his digits resting beside his helm. Right after he was filled with eight little sparks, he fell into a such a deep recharge that several orns slipped by in what felt like a brief defrag. He lost too much time to the comforting darkness. Grimacing, Sunstreaker shifted to alleviate some pressure from a sensitive spot on his chest. Just what did the medic did to him while he was incapacitated?

Frowning, Sunstreaker turned his servo to examine the scratches marring the once-pristine paint. The following orns had been generally quiet and uneventful. It made the cycles draw out slowly. His chronometer counted on at its languid pace inside his HUD, and each astrosecond seemed to last twice as long as it should. 

Tick, tick, tick. 

Flatline tried to bait him into conversation at odd intervals, though it rarely got any response out of the golden mech. As a result, the medic often just kept to his own work. There were no visible patterns to Flatline's coming and going. The jet-black Decepticon came and went from the "breedery", it had been called, at unset times, usually returning to check on him. Did Flatline have superiors to report to? Or were there experiments other than himself to torture? Sunstreaker settled himself by assuming that Flatline was focused on other tasks rather than planning future pain for him. 

A light pressure nudged against Sunstreaker's back. He grunted in response and raised his chassis from the floor to make room for the servos that carefully lifted him. This was one of the routines. Every joor, Bruce would pick him up and relocate them to another spot in the tiny den. The big bug would fuss over him and make sure all of his joints flexed and bent at least once to keep up his circulation. It actually helped Sunstreaker so that he didn't go numb like before. Even though each move was slow and Bruce's servos were placed so they avoided pressure on his sensitive chest, it didn't make the process any less annoying. Or invasive. 

Laying on his back at their new spot for the joor, Sunstreaker frowned at his attentive mate. The Swarm was focused on carefully bending his limp legs just to the joints' limits before bending them back to their natural position. 

Bruce was kind and gentle, even considerate in ways that most mechs weren't. The bug was attentive to his every need without being asked. Even great efforts were made to breech the gap between their language barrier. Besides being a non-mech, the Swarm was...everything Sunstreaker had ever dreamed of in his ideal mate. 

But, well, life was never perfect. His tightly-closed bond was proof of that. 

"Hey, Bruce," he murmured. Said Swarm immediately--carefully--eased Sunstreaker's leg to the ground and climbed above his frame. It was almost sweet how Bruce affectionately rubbed their helms together. Almost. "Let's go outside. I want to go out."

Dark brows furled in focus as Bruce tried to understand the request. When Sunstreaker asked again more slowly, the bug gradually caught on. The request should have been understandable considering how many times he'd asked already. Optics dim, Sunstreaker detachedly watched realization dawn on Bruce's enlarged features then slowly morph into something else entirely. Regret? Orange optics slid away from his own, and Bruce tried to appease him with soft touches meant to stir up a pleasant charge. 

Turning his helm away, Sunstreaker laid still beneath the Swarm's unsure caresses. The truth of the matter was, Bruce abducted him and kept him trapped against his will. There was no way for him to escape on his own. He was cared for, possibly even loved, by a...creature in this prison. But he still was just a broken toy cared for and owned by the Decepticon that saw him as an item to be used.

It wasn't worth the trouble to fight against the depression that slowly ate at his spark anymore. Bruce chirred softly above him, trying to make him happy.

~-~-~

Eight orns passed. 

The cascade of clicks from Flatline's console came to an abrupt halt when the door to the outside world suddenly whooshed open. Stirring from a light recharge, Sunstreaker tiredly pushed Bruce's muzzle away and leaned up on a elbow to peer outside the den. It was a guest. 

This was new. 

It was a standard looking Decepticon soldier. Something in the mech's stance made it look like he was either in a hurry or terrified of being in the breedery. The soldier handed Flatline a datapad, failed an attempt at a half-aft bow, then made a mad dash for the door.

But on his way out, he somehow managed to catch a glance of Sunstreaker in the shadows. Their optics met for a brief moment, one of fearful fascination and the other dull with acceptance. Sunstreaker's expression seemed to take the soldier off guard, because the obviously young mech's steps faltered just long enough to merit a deep, possessive growl from Bruce, who was probably just barely visible in the shadows. A fire lit under the soldier's aft faster than any barrage of laserfire could. He literally wedged himself through the opening door just to escape faster. Contented, Bruce settled down and nuzzled the back of Sunstreaker's neck affectionately.

White light from the received datapad's screen reflected off the medic's dark finish. Flatline studied the device intently for a full breem, completely still aside from his rapidly shifting optics. The pad was flicked off and set down, then Flatline turned and headed straight over to the den.

Bright light from the main room flooded inside when the medic cast open the curtains. It was blinding, disorienting for the confined carrier. Sunstreaker covered his face and curled in on himself. He didn't want to see that Decepticon or the worry-worthy smirk on his ugly faceplates. 

"It's time to wake up, Sunshine," Flatline crooned sickeningly sweet. The unexpected nickname made Sunstreaker instinctively growl in indignation. "That's a good carrier. Come now, we're going outside."

Outside? The Lamborghini looked up into the brightness, expression filled with shock. They were going outside? Helpless tremors wracked Sunstreaker frame at the sheer idea of actually leaving the breedery. Just being outside of the room seemed like something akin to freedom compared to his shackless prison. 

Nervous flutters through his circuitry made the sparklings inside his gestation chamber wriggle anxiously in tune with their carrier's shift in emotions. Sunstreaker halted his thought process instantly and ran a quelling servo down his swollen abdomen, but they calmed only after Bruce laid a clawed servos over his own. It was almost as if they could sense not only his moods but also their sire's. How could they sense everything so well when they were so young?

A single digit delicately lifted his chin. Sunstreaker looked up at Flatline in a startling realization that he had screwed his optics shut to focus. "That's a very good breeder," Flatline said softly, scritching Sunstreaker's chin in praise. Heat flushed the golden carrier's faceplates in embarrassment at being treated like a simpleminded dolt. 

Flatline stepped back, holding the curtain to the den open to make room for Bruce to carry Sunstreaker out. "Come along. We're going to get you cleaned up."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It can be easy to forget that this is unwanted affection. Sometimes it's important to touch on the real matter at hand even if it's not the happiest subject.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flatline is only a teensy bit possessive. Just a little bit.

Specks of yellow and black paint glistened in the puddles that slowly trickled through the drainage wells of the scrub-room’s floor. Shivers wracked the gunmetal grey mech that balanced on a short stool while at least three active Swarm fretted about his frame at any one time. One in particular paced the length of the room and grumbled irritably whenever one of its brethren hovered for longer than necessary. Their curiosity was natural. This was a new Cybertronian: a rarity for most hive-clutched Swarm. It had been quite a long time since the last outsider was brought into their home.

Standing near the doorway, Flatline ran a digit along his chin as he observed his prized breeder. Sunstreaker was far from comfortable being so close to the peculiar, seven-limbed Swarm of the maintenance sector. The Autobot was scrubbed clean of all dirt and grime by practiced servos and specialized devices. It really was a shame that Flatline hadn’t informed them that the remnants of the bright paint wasn’t actually a foreign contaminate. His breeder seemed a bit miffed by the loss of color.

The fact that the Autobot was showing more emotions—even if they were less than pleased—was a good sign considering the recent psychological degradation as of late. Breaking a prisoner’s spirit was one of Flatline’s goals, of course, but he didn’t wish to contend with the aftermath of yet another suicide. The pacing Swarm keeping careful observation of his mate’s wellbeing certainly hadn’t handled the last one well. As they say, the third time’s the charm.

Perhaps taking the random field trip outside the breedery was a good idea? His breeder wouldn’t feel so cooped up, and the spark-crushing view of freedom just outside of reach was a nice bonus. Giving a little made a prisoner happier. Flatline closely observed the busy workers lather the breeder’s frame with cleaning solution. A slight shiver preceded a gradual release of tension along gold-turned-grey shoulders. And, the more happiness Flatline could squash, the quicker his little breeder would break. Autobots were quite feebleminded after all. Steam of hot cleaning oil trailed down unconsciously flared plating, washing soiled suds down the small furrows in the floor.  

Flatline smirked. Yes. That sounded like a wonderful plan.

~-~-~

Sunstreaker's upper frame turned about the room in unabashed interest, trying to look everywhere at once. Flatline smirked faintly as he adjusted his breeder to a somewhat presentable position. It wasn't as if the stubborn mech could stand, or so he claimed, so this kneeling had to do. Flatline huffed softly as he made sure sitting Sunstreaker on his knees and aft wouldn't cause any unnecessary strain on the developing clutch. He lightly clasped his breeder's helm to still the annoying fidgeting.

_'He certainly is curious outside of his guarded exterior,'_ the medic mused to himself. 

The gunmetal grey armor was a bit of a letdown compared to the previously vibrant exterior. But still, at least Sunstreaker had his looks. A lack of paint did not negate from his natural beauty. Flatline ran an appreciative digit down the shapely cheekplate and took a step back. A belated, half-sparked swat passed where his servo had been, but Sunstreaker's attention was locked elsewhere. The medic was surprised when his breeder remained still for a full klik, gaze locked on something further into the room. 

There was that look; an expression almost akin to the look of terrified awe most mechs have when they see their Lord Megatron in living metal for the first time. Sunstreaker was at least intelligent enough to recognize the importance of this area and who precisely they were there to see. 

A mech created by mistake: a monstrosity at his birth let live only due to Shockwave's ever wise, ever foreseeing optic; the almost-mech slowly strolled around the gently glowing walls at the edge of their visible range. They were being observed, critically analyzed by a stalking predator. This was the very first broodcarrier: the genetic start of the Swarm infestation. The broodcarrier held exponential power in his domain. Not a single living mech gave the him orders. Decepticon high command had quickly learned that coaxing and bribing worked as a far more effective methods than even hinting at using brute force. You just don't threaten a mech with millions of obedient creations--canabalistic soldiers--that were just a brief call away. 

The hive had become as much of a bane as a benefit for their Lord's conquest of taking over the galaxy. 

With both pairs of servos clasped together, Flatline approached the front of the greeter's platform. It was a small corner of the room that sloped nearly half a level below the main room's floor level. It was designed that way to give any guest the disadvantage of lower ground, not to mention the psychological ploy to make the intruder feel like a lesser. "My, my!" Flatline greeted in a forced tone of kindness. His shouted greeting was met by only the briefest of flicker of optics from the carrier of the Swarm. "You're looking quite voluptuous today, Broodcarrier." A faint, satisfied smirk upturned the half-mech's mouth. Flatline did his best to hold back a scowl. He really did /hate kissing aft. 

Long, semi-transparent wings flared in an open display. Sharp, taloned digits flexed in faint sparklight, reflecting their deadly gleam. The broodcarrier was a mech despite his abnormal frame and irregular spark coding. And like any Decepticon, it was always a dominance battle, even when Flatline tried to appease the glitch. The malformed half-mech meandered just out of range, but not without casting a taunting smirk in Flatline's direction.

The earlier false-smile morphed into a sour scowl on Flatline's face. He turned his back to the slope and walked irritably out the only door to the greeter's platform. As the door slid shut behind him, Bruce rumble-chittered nervously. The breeder was just on the other side of the door, yet the Swarm still fretted needlessly. Flatline ruefully shooed the overprotective Swarm away from the door. There was nothing wrong with leaving Sunstreaker in there. Besides, his breeder wouldn't gain any attention from the haughty broodcarrier on his own. 

Hopefully Commander Shockwave would be there soon. The leading Decepticon scientist was one of the few who could get the stubborn broodcarrier into talking. On a good orn anyway.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I had a half day today. What's that mean? It means time for Sideswipe, that's what. This is just a bit of fun at our favorite red frontliner's expense.

It was dark. And cold. And quiet in a creepy way. Shivering, Sideswipe leaned against the wall as he waited impatiently by a door in the Autobot base. He finally made it to Cybertron. Sure, it took an arm and a leg to actually get approval to relocate, but he was finally _here_. He huffed irritably through his vents. The cycle of heated air billowed in a thin puff of steam through the vents on his sides. Now all Sideswipe had to do was find out where Sunny was on this dead planet. That, and avoid the hungry bugs out to eat him.

 _After_ he was let out of the room they locked him in.

Fraggers. Sideswipe slouched further down the wall grumpily, ignorant of the scores the bolts in the wall made in his paint. The chain of command at Cybertron was just as bullheaded as Optimus. Regulations for this, regulations for that. Screw it all! Sideswipe balled his servos into fist and slammed them against the wall at his back. He was wasting precious time waiting for old, hoity-toity mechs to make up their fragging minds.

Memories of that strange mech’s words haunted Sideswipe’s processor. He hadn’t been able to get more than a few hours recharge here and there after that creepy conversation. Someone had Sunstreaker, a Decepticon more likely than not.

Everyone knew how deranged the ‘Cons were. The trip took long enough the captor to fulfill any sort of twisted plans he had for the golden Lamborghini. As it was, it wasn’t really a matter of saving Sunstreaker from the fragger twisted intentions, but rather saving him before he was broken beyond repair. Again. Sideswipe hung his head low and grit his denta in frustration. Look how well that turned out last time.

And he could be out saving Sunstreaker if it wasn’t for the fragging officers forcing him to wait! Sideswipe kicked away from the wall, turned sharply, and planted his peds in front of the door. They had no right to keep him locked up like this! The cherry red mech pulled back his fist before throwing it forward with all of his pent-up rage. The tempered metal of the door didn’t budge. Snarling, Sideswipe punched again, harder this time. Loud clangs echoed in the small room decorated with just a single table and a pair of chairs. He wasn’t some prisoner!

A soft _snick_ was muffled by the continuous slams of metal-on-metal and Sideswipe’s violent curses. The next punch pushed the thick steel door open slightly. Sideswipe’s optics flared bright in shock and just a small glimmer of hope. Taking a step back, the frontline crouched down then charged forward, plowing through the door with his shoulder.

Well, almost. He didn’t expect the door to open before his shoulderplates made contact with it. Neither did he expect his burst of energy to be used against him by another mech. Apparently, the doorway was open to both his room’s door and the room adjacent to it across the hallway. Skidding to a stop on your face kinda, well, _hurt_. So did crashing into a table full of heavy parts, only to have them rain down on your crumpled frame.

Sideswipe groaned softly, reaching up to feel a particularly deep dent in his backside. He pushed himself to his elbows, knocking loose some of the offending pieces of metal, and turned to mouth off whoever had the audacity to interrupt his temper tantrum. But the words kind of died on Sideswipe’s derma when he saw who was the one to wreck him so easily.

The stout mech’s fists were planted on his hips, legs braced apart in a cocky stance. His rough, scarred plating from countless battles past reflected the meager lighting at the Autobot base. “Short temper, red paint, pretty face. Yep. Yer Sunshine’s brother, alright.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shameless fluff. I regret nothing.

A sharp, black claw dug through a seam slowly, dragging out bits of dried matter with it. The servo flexed, plating flared, before the claw sunk down once more to dig out offensive debris. Flatline frowned down at his servo as he twisted it in the light. Working with non-sentient little pests often resulted in getting filth in his joints. He shifted back, leaning against the wall behind him as he worked more grit out. It didn't really bother the medic much, but there were times when he was so utterly bored out of his processor that he had nothing else to focus on. Then his perpetually dirty joints became the most annoying thing on Cybertron. 

Shockwave was extraordinarily late. Though, Flatline mused, Commanders have their own schedules. The black and red 'Con's frown lifted to a faint smirk. He truly didn't envy Commander Shockwave or his responsibilities. While dealing with idiotic Swarm was bothersome, it wasn't nearly half as bad as having to run around the galaxy at their Lord's whim just so the Warlord could throw a new device at the Autobots whenever he got bored. Flatline picked a large chuck of something that was still moist out of his wrist and flicked it away with disdain. Though, there were rumors that the cold scientist got off on being Lord Megatron's steppingstone. That was probably the _only_ way the cyclops got off. Ugly fragger.

Crouched low at his side, Bruce keened softly at the door separating them from Sunstreaker. Flatline rolled his optics in exasperation. "Bruce." It was funny how that designation stuck so easily. When he asked his breeder why such a strange designation was chosen, the Autobot said the Swarm resembled a mech in some sort of vid file on a distant planet. Quite strange. 

Flatline glanced up, when he realized the Swarm wasn't by his side anymore. "Get back over here," he snapped, irritated. He didn't have to see the massive, intimidating Swarm pressed flat against the door flinch like a youngling caught being troublesome. It had happened twice already.

Small, dejected steps brought Bruce back over. Spiky armor brushed against Flatline's thigh, quills bending back to avoid causing damage and Bruce clicked quietly in apology to ask for forgiveness. 

Placing a servo on the Swarm's larger helm, Flatline ordered quietly, "Be patient."

Orange optics blinked up at the medic in a trusting, obedient stare. Bruce shuffled around Flatline's legs to put the medic as a barrier between it and the door. The black and red mech stared down at his test subject, one he had personally raised from an egg, as the Swarm set about using its long, serrated talons to try to pick grit out of its own servos--a task quite difficult when said talons were longer than the digits they were attached to. Flatline smiled a small, barely there smile, and patted Bruce's helm in silent praise. 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another month since the last update! Agh!
> 
> School is so draining. Headcanon has _slowly_ been feeding me ideas, which is why it took so long to get this update out. 
> 
> This chapter was typed on a laptop! (no way!) Also, I will now be linking updates on this and other fics on my Tumblr account. http://clocktimustime.tumblr.com/

This wasn’t just some fieldtrip. Sunstreaker stared up in awe at the subtle glow radiating throughout the ceiling in the cavernous room. The illumination—warm like a spark at peace—traced along the silhouette of a mech stalking around the edge of Sunstreaker’s visible range. Was that what he thought it was? Pushing forward to put his weight on his servos, the Lamborghini dragged his frame over to the guardrails bordering the lowered plateau’s edges.

“Oh. Another outsider,” the mech sighed from somewhere within the field of light. “How very droll.”

The carrier paid the haughty mech no mind. One servo reached up, grasping the bar above his helm, then another. Sunstreaker pulled his frame up above the guard rail, supporting his entire weight on his arms alone. His extended abdominal plating rested on the bar to relieve the strain the position put on it.

He looked down at his unsteady peds in mild amazement. This was the closest he’d been to standing on his own since the medics told him he’d never walk again. Sunstreaker snorted at his own stubborn tendencies. He’d been so furious at anyone and everyone, himself especially. Rage fueled him to try the stupid stunt of pushing himself off the medical berth in protest and walking without being able to even feel his legs at the time. “Walking” really consisted of peds hitting the floor followed shortly after by ground punching face.

Yeah. Sunstreaker knew he was a stubborn glitch. And there were a lot of times that his own actions ended up biting him in the aft.

“Why are you here, inferior?”

The hostile question didn’t even register to Sunstreaker’s audios. The vision of shelves stacked from floor to ceiling with glowing pods had the carrier’s full attention. Small orbs of light shown through the transparent, tiny frames curled within each pod. They were…sparklings. Hundreds—no, thousand—of developing newsparks were incubating along the rows and columns of the racks that filled the massive room. Sunstreaker’s optics widened in surprise. There were subtle vibrations on the ground, a sensation in the air—he hadn’t realized why at first, but it was the vibration of thousands of sparks pulsing in sync.

There was one such pod cared for by the Autobots in the early stages of the war. A carrier was rescued after a Decepticon attack. He was fatally wounded, but the medics were able to extract the newspark before it the death claimed its spark as well. It incubated in a small pod for the longest time before emerging as a strong little to-be-Autobot. A small smile ghosted along Sunstreaker’s derma. He never would have even noticed the beautiful little life growing in the cold, clinical medbay were it not for a certain curious hellion that thought it was the coolest thing in existence. Sunstreaker’s face fell as memories ate away in his processor. If only he’d felt the same when—

“Do not ignore me, you wretch!”

Sunstreaker’s helm snapped forward at the insult spat directly in his face. He was met with the visage of an up close and personal view of an orange-opticked glare. Subconsciously, he laid a protective servo across his midsection to guard his unborn sparklings from the threat. Aside from that, all Sunstreaker did was tilt his helm slightly in interest.

The disregard for his own safety in the face of possible danger served to piss the substantially shorter mech off. “The cur brought you here,” the small, shapely mech sneered. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

Leaning back slightly while still supporting his weight with one servo, Sunstreaker took stock of the smaller mech before him. Chartreuse in color and aerodynamic in plating design, the arrogant mech seemed to be an aerial of some sort. He had wings, but not like those of a flight model. They were wings not unlike Bruce’s. However, unlike the large Swarm, this mech seemed to keep them out rather than fold them away. He didn’t have any mandibles—he did have antenna, but some mechs had upgrades installed for better communication—so he probably wasn’t a Swarm.

Smirking faintly, Sunstreaker purposefully looked away in feigned disinterest. He didn’t need to bother with this insecure lowlife.

The mech’s white face twisted to an ugly visage that bared rows of sharp denta. His wings rose in hostility and twitched angrily as he snarled, “Explain yourself or I will have you ripped to shreds!”

Skittering and the click-clack sound of Swarm peds filled the emptiness in a quiet rush. Sunstreaker looked up at the ceiling where the epicenter of a great gathering slowly filled out to a mob of orange optics staring down at the two mechs below. The soft sparklight from the incubation chambers highlighted the sharp lines of each Swarm that loomed overhead. They waited eagerly for something, such as a command to carry out exactly what the chartreuse mech threatened.

So. One crippled, carrier against a good-sized mob of Swarm and an extremely hostile mech with razor sharp claws within arm’s reach?

Eh. He’d survived worse odds before.

Blue optics narrowed to determined slits. Enough was enough—Sunstreaker wouldn’t let any more mechs walk all over him. Leaning in to invade the cocky little slagger’s face, he whispered, “Get the frag out of my face, pipsqueak.”

There was this really awkward pause that usually followed a suicidal insult like that. Like many mechs who had been faced with the ex-frontliner’s brazen attitude before, the short mech’s faceplates fell slack in shock and he leaned backwards slightly. How could he have such audacity? Did he really have the ball bearings to not fall to the ground immediately and grovel at this superior Decepticon’s peds?

Sunstreaker smirked. Yes. Yes, he did.

Sadly, the stunned mech recovered from his initial shock, though he took a step away in self-preservation. “You…” He heaved ventilation after ventilation as his insulted anger grew, a light tint of heat coloring his enraged faceplates. “You!!” The smaller mech took another step back then leaned forward, screaming an obscene garble of clicks, shrieks, and warbles.

All at once, the Swarm clustered on the ceiling of the room fell like sheets of rain during a typhoon. Wings buzzed in a flurry, limbs flailed, and frames blocked out the comforting light of innocent, unborn sparks just a short distance away.

Sunstreaker tensed as the Swarm rushed in.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agh! I'm so sorry it's been so long since I've updated! I've been so sick for months now. Vicodin is the only thing that keeps me going these days. :[
> 
> This chapter is unfortunately short. I had a lot more before. (But then my phone died and I lost everything ;_;) For that I am sorry. However, it helped me get past some tough spots, so things should go much more smoothly moving forward. Hopefully I'll be able to get more chapters out after I get better!

The damage had already been done by the time Flatline realized his mistake in leaving his little carrier unattended. He stood still at the entrance, mouth agape, while Bruce growled low at his side. No movement was made to rescue the defeated mech because even the lowliest of Swarm knew the consequences of crossing the Broodcarrier. 

"What I'd like to know..." the lithe mech drawled as he casually surveyed the damage sprawled all around him. Splatters of energon speckled his pristine aqua plating. "...is why this breeder was not presented for inspection before he was put into production."

Said breeder, Sunstreaker, laid amidst the tangled mass of Swarm, his form rested prone and badly damaged. Razor-sharp claws bit into his neck cables to keep him still, but Flatline knew the only things keeping his special carrier still were the spines and weapons pressed firmly to his abdominal plating. 

The simmering carcasses of three large beasts laid in pools of their own energon that intermingled with splashing drops that seeped from the wounds of those still functioning. Though quick and messy, the small battle waged brought about more than just bloodshed. Tension crackled through the air strong enough that even some of the warrior class Swarm fidgeted nervously while holding the offender down. 

Though wounded as he was, the fight didn't leave Sunstreaker entirely. He still pulled minutely, experimentally, as the tense seconds ticked by. Each move dug another pair of claws deeper into his plating, welling another trail of energon dripping down his battered frame. The pain must have been excruciating. 

But there was something there that Flatline had never seen before. Fear was present, yes. It had been a constant emotion hid poorly since capture. An arm cradled around his midsection screamed of his fear for his unborn creations and of his own vulnerability. Yet there was something else. Something changed in the pinned mech. It was something that the Broodcarrier and his warriors didn't like it. Flatline had to act fast. 

Taking a measured step forward, the Decepticon scientist hoped to garner attention with a bow. "Glorious Broodcarrier, my sincerest apologies," Flatline crooned sweetly, "I did not inform you immediately because I have not finished my testing of this subject." 

Critical optics turned to survey his supplicated pose. The Broodcarrier straightened his frame to stand tall and rose his delicate chin. 

There was suspicion, but enough curiosity to grant Flatline his peace. "The test subject shows strong signs of being a positive match. I wished to finalize my testing before the integration."

Anger morphed frantically to shock as the Broodcarrier's gaze snapped to Sunstreaker once again. He was met by the sight of Sunstreaker's helm held high in defiance.   
Rising somberly from the bow, Flatline said softly, "Again, my sincerest apologies, your grace. I simply did not wish to waste your precious and highly sought after time with what could be a false lead." 

A smile spread on Flatline's face, small and confident. He could see the effects of a positive match in action. Though the Swarm held Sunstreaker down, they did not do so with excessive force. They may have beaten him into submission by the Broodcarrier's orders, but the inner battles their simple processors fought was shown in their drawn back shoulders and slicked antennae. 

New mech. New carrier. Conflicted. 

"Very well," the Broodcarrier snapped, a slight waver in his vocals. He returned the pale blue glare with a haughty stare down his nasal ridge. "Take him to the healers," he directed to his warriors. They disentangled themselves from Sunstreaker's frame, a few Swarm giving light licks to the puncture wounds they left behind. 

"You, scrap heap," the Broodcarrier directed to Flatline. "This little pet of yours now belongs to me. I say when he eats, when he sleeps, and what his role is. He lives to serve me. He only lives as long as I see fit. Do I make myself clear?"

Nodding graciously, Flatline agrees to appease the mech. "Yes, oh great one. He is so blessed to receive your mercy." The black mech kept his optics carefully averted from the scene to his side. 

Sunstreaker's armor flared high in agitation had the huge, surly warrior Swarm circled around him in an uneasy ring. None dared to be the one to touch him first. "Bruce," the injured carrier snapped, not even turning away from his glare at the Broodcarrier. 

In an instant Bruce had Sunstreaker cradled carefully in his arms. Though he was smaller than some of the massive warriors that served as the Broodcarrier's personal guard, he showed no fear with his carrier in his arms. The clustered circle parted for the confident beast and his riled charge as they climbed above the slanted walls up to the soft glow of the spark-lit chambers above.


	28. Chapter 28

The healing chambers lay just beyond the towering shelves lined with developing sparklings. The cavernous room glowed a pale blue from the shimmering pool of treated energon that flooded the basin's floor. A glittering walkway of crushed metals and precious stones gave way with a soft crunch as Bruce's heavy footfall traced slowly around the perimeter.

One of the fussy healers chittered angrily when the pacing mech dragged his copper-laden ped through the meticulously separated iron piles. Bruce paid the healer no mind and the spindly Swarm returned to his cohorts to continue working.

Stiffly, Sunstreaker laid still on the strange medical slab that left him halfway submerged in the luminescent energon. He felt some comfort in the knowledge that Bruce was keeping guard over him again, but there was just something awkward about the so called "healers" and how they worked.

They were Swarm creatures that hung upside down from the tall ceiling. They had small frames with several bulbous pouches hanging from their chassis. Numerous, impossibly thin arms extended to touch all over his plating and examines every wound on his frame. Some of their limbs were tipped in an angry red glow. Sunstreaker's vision blurred at first when he tried to see what they were doing. Resetting his optics, he saw that those fragile extensions manipulated fine tendrils of molten metal that fed continuously from the small sacks dangling from their frames.

It made him dizzy focusing on something so small. Shaking his helm to clear it, Sunstreaker instead watched as one of the limbs split to a small web-like net, slid smoothly into a pile of powdered metal, and poured a generous scoop into one of its open pouches. Heat billowed out from the small opening that quickly slid open for a klik to accept the powder. The bright flash of light it caused had him pushing his helm to the side, sensitized optics stinging from exposure.

Limbs worked in tandem over a large gouge in his chest plates and pieces of melted plating came free with quick cuts. Scrunching his brow, Sunstreaker realized that he felt no pain from the incision. He didn't feel any pain at all. It was as though he was running at half processing power. Was he drugged? Or did he lose too much energon? He cast a wary glance at Bruce, who was still circling the pools with haunched shoulders. The big lug was keeping a sharp watch over everything they were doing.

He was...safe. Uneasily, Sunstreaker felt his frame slip further into the energon pool and let the healers work.

It was fascinating how the thin lengths of metals were worked into his cracked plating. The patches became crisscrosses of molten metal that slowly cooled to a smooth, solid patch. One of the deep gouges...was imbed with a small sapphire?

"Why're you..." Sunstreaker slurred unintelligibly. But the healers continued working steadily above his frame. They may not have even understood him.

Sighing softly in defeat, Sunstreaker closed his optics and drifted in and out of hazy consciousness in the warm pool of energon.

~-~-~

Rusted out scrap was strewn across the abandoned city. Not a single tower remained. Bare, skeletal bones of the once-existing structures were riddled with fang marks left by the few that dared to try and eat the super reinforced metal. It was under a small pile of these girders that Bob sat nervously, limbs curled beneath his frame.

It was out there; The Screaming Death that left no survivors lurked nearby. What was left of the city was enough to keep it quiet for the time being. But once the food ran out, the Screaming Death would release its battle cry once more.

A shrill shriek echoed through the streets, terrifying the simple-minded Swarmling to his core. One of his brothers was taken in that instance. He, too, would be consumed if he didn't find his hivemates soon.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update! Ahhhhh!! I'm as shocked as you are. Talk about a writer's block. Sheesh. I'm so sorry it's been over five months!
> 
> Finally, progression in the story! There will be quite a bit more in chapters to come. There will also be further development on the characters' personalities.

Sheer pain infused the fiber of his very being. Liquid fire coursed through his lines in a brutal tattoo with each excruciating cycle of his fuel pump. The mere act of powering online to partial awareness was a burden almost not worthwhile. However, something seemed different among the pain. 

Sunstreaker flinched then shifted to a somewhat more comfortable position on the padding he was lain upon. It was a broad berth meant to hold multiple frames, multiple large frames. He unconsciously tried to shift his legs closer together, but only managed to make them twitch. But the movement caught his attention, and he quickly lost his breath.

In the stretch of space in front of him, the Broodcarrier paced casually and prattled on about something. The rush of energon through his lines deafened him. System messages left small notes about the progress of repair nanites added recently. Older messages reported possible viral infections, an urgent notification of the loss of his left leg, heavy damage to his chestplate, and a scrolling readout of other, miscellaneous damage. 

Sunstreaker peered down at his peds cautiously, trailing his optics from tip to hip joint. Everything...seemed attached and as it had previously been. He craned his neck in an awkward pose to examine his chest. Intact. The paint was all but gone, leaving him a horrific shade of grey. Everything seemed fine–even his distended abdomen sat primly, buzzing with warmth. 

Then again, he'd been hit in the helm pretty hard during his fight with the Swarm guardsmech. There were probably some false readings as a result. It would likely take some time before his systems recalibrated. Perhaps...perhaps his optics were also glitching. There was no way he could possibly moved his permanently damaged legs. 

Grim determination set his features in a dark look of concentration. Everything was sluggish, as though he were weighed down. He physically felt the signal to move leave his processor and snake down his spinal strut. It burned viciously. Acidic energy curled it's way through Sunstreaker's pelvic array in a painfully erotic dance of "What if?" before it slithered down his legs, past his knee guards, and collected at his ankles. The will to move had never been so strong, yet the pain he felt was consuming. It was all so overwhelming.

Time stretched while the golden warrior waited for a response. Something, anything would give him hope. He just needed hope. Just this one, small mercy in the Primus-forsaken hole he'd gotten himself dragged into. He could fight and would continue to fight so long as he was physically able. But as things stood, he could only fight back so much. 

Either oblivious or uncaring of Sunstreaker's inner turmoil, the aqua-clad mech continued on with an excited rant. Upcoming responsibilities, the introduction to the other hive's breeders, the breeding rotation; plans were already well into the works. The thought of being forced into that kind of life made Sunstreaker's spark squeeze uncomfortably.

Then, with the smallest movement, the gold-chipped legs jerked. The spasm was small and uncontrolled, but it was an action he had initialized. 

Settling back with a small grimace, the warrior settled to fully grasp the changes that were coming. The neural connections to his legs were finally healing. He would walk again. With enough practice and determination, he would really walk again. They said it was impossible. 

It would take time to recover. Time, unfortunately, was not on his side. The gravity of the situation finally settled on his pain-riddled helm. Escaping would be impossible without mobility. He had thought in the past that they would kill him after birthing his creations. But that was far from the truth. They had plans for him and, for now, he was well and truly stuck. 

Crossing his arms, Sunstreaker tapped a digit in contemplation. He had to form a plan of attack. POW Training 101: A mech can't escape a prison without knowing his surroundings. Keeping half an audio trained on his twisted keeper, he observed the surroundings. 

The room was large; lavish decorations covered every available surface. Sheets of the familiar tendrils like those from his hole-in-the-wall in Flatline's lab hung from the ceilings in numerous curtains. They billowed softly while small, quick Swarmlings scuttled about around the uneven ceiling. They looked like drones going about their duties, unarmed and fairly harmless. 

Sunstreaker changed his focus to the walls of the spacious room. Large archways connected several smaller coves to the main room. Orange optics dotted the dark corners intermittently, keeping a close watch on the unfamiliar mech seated before their Broodcarrier. Possibly servants ready to please their master, possibly guardsmech ready to put him down should he protest again. 

A small, six-legged Swarmling approached with a tray in hand at the end of the Broodcarrier's charade. The tray it hoisted sported a cube of energon that outweighed it judging by the way its spindly legs dug into the floor. 

"As commemoration for your newly appointed role," the Broodcarrier crooned, a decidedly wicked note in his voice. "I offer you the finest energon our stores have to offer." 

Should he comply? Or should he fight. Experimentally, Sunstreaker tried to force his legs to twice again. They did, but weakly and with a long delay. 

With a frown he took the offered cube. Save your strength for when it is important, his old instructor would have said. Lay low and strike when they least expect it.

Sunstreaker forced himself to drink the energon. He tried to focus on what was to come and not on how much he missed his old friend.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahahahaha– *shot*

There was something endearing about the way his carried flinched in alarmed frustration whenever Flatline gave him his daily injections. Well, it could be the fact that he tried to catch the prone mech off guard. The little thing had been dozing lightly during an examination. He was so exhausted.

With Sunstreaker, there was always shock hastily covered up by grouching and griping. Not to mention that lovely little glare from beneath his brow. That orn was no different. Sunstreaker slapped a servo over the pained spot that had been attacked by the retreating syringe. That one had to sting. The needle was thicker and sharper than others he had used before. His carrier groaned, agitated, at the discomfort left behind.

Flatline hummed happily, preparing another syringe. The second injection earned a hiss of discomfort when he wiggled the needle. "Goodness, you're worse than a newspark," Flatline chided in good nature as he readied yet another syringe in his smaller set of arms.

"Hate needles," Sunstreaker groused. "And medics." The new syringe was held at the ready, and the sleepy mech offered his arm after a moment of resistance. Black digits curled in discomfort as the liquid burned through his lines.

Applying pressure to the nick left by the needle, Flatline readied a small tube of sealant. Focusing on his task, he said, "Luckily for you, I am a mech of multiple professions. I am an expert in the field of biological science, I'll have you know."

If anything, Sunstreaker sulked more. "That means I hate you twice over."

Chuckling, Flatline walked around the table seating his patient to collect more materials. "You should be thanking me. These ravenous little monsters inside you started their growth cycle not too long ago." He said, patting Sunstreaker's gently rounded abdomen affectionately, earning an irritated swat for his efforts. "They would suck you dry of your resources were it not for these wonderful injections." Holding up the syringe in emphasis, Flatline smirked.

The medic straighten, taking on an air of professionalism. "Now then, let's get this finished up. Lay back and let me examine you."

As untrusting as he was, the carrier eased himself backwards on the table. His arms shook with strain, so Flatline quickly helped ease him back all the way. This was a trying stage in the carrying process. The eggs were rapidly growing – gaining at least a quarter of their size every orn – effectively draining the carrier of all nonessential resources.

Gently, Flatline eased his digits beneath his carriers flared abdominal plating. Heavy heat clung to the wires and mesh directly beneath the protective plates. His digits danced along the outline of the silicone gestation chamber, tracing the outline of the eggs and their squirming inhabitants. Growing quickly, indeed.

"How would my little carrier enjoy a cool bath?" Flatline asked, laying on the sweetness enough to make it suspicious. He was met with a withering glare, but the excited rev of Sunstreaker's constantly-running cooling fans was enough to give away his excitement at the idea.

"That's what I thought." Turning, Flatline finally acknowledged the massive Swarm crouching impatiently in the corner. "Bruce? I could use a hand."

~-~-~

The bath was blissfully cool. Sunstreaker leaned back with a sigh, relaxing in the strange bathing basin. Loose straps held his hips in place, probably to help prevent him from slipping under the surface. He snorted to himself. As if he'd do something like that.

Resting his helm on bath's edge, Sunstreaker stared up at Bruce's upside down mug. The bug was a lot more clingy than he used to be, before the fight anyway. He reached a wet servo up and gently pet his guardian's cheek. A mandible stroked his digits in return.

Grinning, Sunstreaker reached up with his other servo and pulled Bruce's helm down, nuzzling their forehelms together. A happy trill rumbled through the Swarm's chest, sending ripples through the water. It tickled in its own way. "You're a real dork, you know that?" He said with a chuckle.

"How _precious_."

Sunstreaker shot up, glaring venomously at the mocking Broodcarrier as he strutted into the bathing room. "What the frag do you want?"

Waving a servo nonchalantly, the Broodcarrier haughtily replied, "Oh, nothing. I'm here for the show."

The show?

Unease gripped Sunstreaker's spark as the silence stretched. The Broodcarrier eyed his claws lazily, seeming to wait for something. Unknown mechs filtered in, taking seats where Sunstreaker hadn't even realized there were chairs at before. They were Decepticons, judging by their optics. He nervously curled his arms across the swell of his abdomen when Shockwave stepped inside, followed immediately by Megatron himself.

The mechs conversed quietly to each other, talking about scientific nonsense and probability of _something_ occurring. What that occurrence was never was spoken outright. The clatter of an pushcart droned down the hallway, eventually making so much noise against the uneven floor that it drowned out the noise of the twenty or more mechs waiting patiently for, as the Broodcarrier had put it, "The Show."

"Hurry it up. We don't have long," Flatline hissed to the smaller mech pushing the cart. He looked oddly familiar.

Grabbing pieces off the moving platform, Flatline went to work setting up a smaller basin by the bath. Optics wide, Sunstreaker watched as thick, dark energon poured like syrup into the clear container. Bruce's warm, protective presence withdrew suddenly and Sunstreaker found his helm forcibly pushed forward, nasal ridge grazing the surface of the bath. Out of the corner of his optic he could see the helper setting up another machine. Stark fear at the new, unexpected situation had the carrier flinch violently when a needle was stabbed into his neck.

The crowd grew to a hush. Tapping digits could be heard while some of the mechs – likely scientists – took notes on what was happening. Sunstreaker didn't move when the strong grip released his helm and the needle drew away. He stared down into the bath, watching his own optics distantly as his frame responded to the injection. Unfamiliar protocols activated foreign sequences that sent pain wracking through his frame. The reflective surface of the bath shifted, showing his rounded midsection as another contraction ripped through his sensornet.

It was time. Labor was induced. His creations were being brought into this cruel, unforgiving world whether he was ready or not. He only hoped they could be strong enough to endure.

Arms raised from the bath, resting on the lip of the basin. Digits clenched and unclenched with each measured ventilation. He raised his helm slowly, blue optics burning bright with determination. The scared demeanor melted away frame his frame, replaced by the signature arrogance the beautiful mech was known for. If they wanted a show, Sunstreaker sure as pit planned to give them a show.

"Let's do this, cog suckers."


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is descriptive of a lot of squickable detail. It also goes to a very dark place. Read if you dare.
> 
> P.S. I've totally been waiting since like chapter 10 for this to happen.

The pain was comforting in its own way, a familiar annoyance there to distract him from plaguing thoughts. Pain was honest; it did not try to deceive. Why would it if there was nothing it could gain from him? No, pain served a different purpose. It's directive was to temper. Some learned what things in life were dangerous from the invisible instructor. Others learned ways to wield it. 

For Sunstreaker, pain was a lifelong lesson in endurance. Sunstreaker had more than enough training to last through the slag pit he was thrown into. 

Each contraction grew sharper as time wore on. It helped him to focus on what needed to be done. Focus on ventilating, push when the pain eases off, bear the feeling of your mechanisms slowly transforming out of the way. That's right. That's what he'd seen when other carries went into labor. 

Denta ground tightly together, Sunstreaker glared at the reflective surface of the bath. There were no medics at his side telling him what to do; no one was even near him for that matter. This was a test. Just like the Broodcarrier's assault was a test of his strength, birthing his creations alone in front of hostile enemies tested his will and endurance. 

Puffs of pink tinged the pool of liquid, billowing steadily from Sunstreaker's bared valve. He probably tore something, based on the pain level, but it was something he was more than capable of handling. Vent. _Focus._

Each push felt like he was being gutted from the inside out. His focus broke when the lip of the tub cracked under the strength of his squeezing digits. Sunstreaker winced as another lance of pain shot through his neural net. It shouldn't be this painful. It shouldn't be taking this long. Quiet murmurs in the seated crowd spoke of the scientists' growing impatience. He had to do something. Something different. 

Shifting, Sunstreaker lifted his torso and twisted his frame. Balancing the heft of his weight along one servo, he shifted the other backwards, rested his weight on the new hold, then repeated the process with the other arm. It swung his frame back and forth in the wide basin. Liquid sloshed with his frame, easing the movement. When his frame hovered above his bent legs, he gingerly settled down, letting the lame limbs hold his weight. They parted slightly, admitting more than enough room for what he needed to do. 

It was easier to push at the new angle. The slight recline he had been at before hampered the smooth transition of the eggs. The first breached the opening of his gestation chamber after only the third contraction. Gritting his denta, Sunstreaker gripped the lip of the basin with both servos and pushed with all his might. The egg plopped into his valve, descending down the channel as another took its place. 

It hurt. By Primus it hurt. The stretch was unpleasant, but the knowledge that his creations would be presented to these _scientists_ hurt far more than any physical pain could compare to. How he feared for his children. 

With a grunt, Sunstreaker birthed the first egg into the cool waters of the bath. The second slid smoothly through the path left by the first, taking only two additional pushes before joining it's brother. Another teased the opening of his gestation chamber. 

There was movement to his left. The assistant. Sunstreaker snarled fiercely, unable to do more while the third egg made its descent. Somehow, the threat worked. The assistant backed away slowly, optics staring somewhere behind the gold and grey frame. Bruce's growled threateningly. 

Squeezing his optics shut, Sunstreaker focused on the feeling of the next egg aligning. He calmed his thoughts and focused on the feeling of it slipping along his stretched calipers, then he purposely flexed the few cablings right before the valve rim. It slipped past and floated to the bottom of the bath when another contraction hit. Venting deeply, the carrier leaned forward. It was precarious to lean on his knees. But there was some need he didn't understand, a task that needed to be fulfilled. 

The next egg was large, larger than the others. It was resistant to breach his channel, the creation inside wiggling its egg free every time it aligned itself. Patiently, Sunstreaker waited while it slipped around within him. Once, twice more it slipped out of alignment. Contracting his abdominal plating manually, the carrier bowed his back, forcefully channeling the large egg into his valve with a pained grunt. The massive egg tested the capacity of his calipers as it inched its way down the tunnel. Sunstreaker rose, shifting his weight to his knees and a servo in order to raise his aft out of the bath. The other servo cupped his valve, gently catching the egg easily the size of two fists. Hot fluid gushed from his gaping valve, ushering the emergence of the last two eggs in his gestation chamber with little fuss. 

They were all birthed. That's what his processor told him anyway. Eight sparklings. Primus. 

Sunstreaker collapses into the bath, careful to avoid falling on one of his eggs. They were all gathered in a small pile at one end of the basin, save the one cradled in his servo. He dragged his frame over to them and carefully lifted each for inspection. While their exterior coatings were soft, even squishy, there laid a tough shell beneath to protect the newspark developing within. The shell was still translucent enough to see bits of movement within. Thin, transparent plating barely concealed the energon pumping through tiny fuel lines. Minuscule orange optics opened and closed, likely blinded by the glow of their vibrant little sparks while they tried to register their sudden change in surroundings. 

Each was small and perfect in their own way. 

But the largest, oblong egg still cradled in his palm held the most interest. Two sparks burned bright within the conjoined eggs. A thin line of energy connected their frames, signifying their split-spark trait. Just like Sunstreaker and his brother. _Just like their sire and carrier._

With a small, contented sigh, the exhausted carrier let himself rest against the walls of the bath. He took care to thoroughly examine each egg once more. His creations. 

There was a great deal of chatter around the room. The mechs spoke of equations and probability again. But this time, their queries were aimed at a certain mech. 

Flatline bent down on one knee beside the bath to put himself at optic level with Sunstreaker. There was something in his stance that spoke of worrisome things. The exhausted carrier cradled his eggs close to his frame. He didn't trust Flatline – he didn't even like him in the slightest – but he begged silently with his optics to be left alone.

"Come now, give them to me."

Sunstreaker shook his head slowly in denial, trying to inch backwards. 

Dual pairs of red optics glanced at the waiting crowd then back at the carrier that began quivering. "They must be placed in a protective environment. They will not survive without it."

It was a lie. It had to be. 

His keeper pointed over to a work table set up with seven large newspark cases filled with dark, rich looking energon. That's where his eggs would go. They would be placed within the protective containers and leech off the energon inside. It could be a place of safety. 

Could he trust him? The depleted meh curled around his eggs, feeling their EM fields pulse calmly. Did he have a choice?

Shaking, Sunstreaker collected an egg from the safety of the bath's waters and passed it into Flatline's steady servos. The medic carried the egg over to the table and carefully inserted the fist-sized sphere in the thick energon. A soft glow radiated from the little spark pulsing within the box. 

The process was repeated for the next six eggs, each with a twinge of hesitation before the creation was passed. The final egg, the twins, was difficult to let go. 

"Satisfactory," Shockwave droned as he approached the table. Worry shot through Sunstreaker's spark at the mech's proximity to his defenseless eggs. "Deliver the specimen to my labs for further testing. Initial scans show favorable results."

The world seemed to narrow in on the way Flatline turned to the massive, purple Decepticon and nodded once without hesitation. Darkness trickled into the edges of Sunstreaker's vision. They were taking his eggs. _Shockwave_ was taking his eggs as "specimens". They were going to be experimented on, dissected by a cold, emotionless monster. 

"N-No," the shaking carrier whispered, utterly ignored while the assistant gingerly stacked the cubes containing his creations on the noisy pushcart. "No," he whispered again, pushing himself against the edge of the bath and stretching a hand toward his eggs as they were ferried out of the room. A few mechs went with them. 

Cold drops of liquid fell from Sunstreaker's outstretched arm. His lips quivered, opening and closing wordlessly. Blue optics, pale from exhaustion, slowly whited out as a quiet craze crept over their owner. No one cared about what was happening. The scientists – cold, detached and _selfish_ as they were – continued their steady stream of note-taking, recording his every reaction to the realization of what just happened. 

His eggs. They were being taken away by monsters. 

Pushing himself up with unstable arms, Sunstreaker managed to slump his frame out of the bath. The fall was disgustingly ungraceful. But his pride didn't matter. Not now. Reaching forward, the carrier dug his digits into the uneven floor and dragged his frame forward. His frame felt so heavy, and he was so very tired, but his motions were not of his conscious control. Creations. They had to be saved. 

He only managed to make it a third of the way across the room before his arms gave out. Stark terror drained him of any remaining energy in his frame. With a shaking sob, Sunstreaker curled his helm to his chest. His spark burned. 

Frag his paralysis. He slammed his fist on the floor. Frag himself for trusting Flatline for even a klik. The ex-frontliner threw his shoulder back, punching the floor with as much strength as he could muster. Frag the Decepticons for taking away his creations. His ventilations picked up, becoming rapid and ragged. Light blue optics turned completely white in rage. 

_Frag it all to the pits!_

Forcefully pushing himself to his knees despite the painful resistance in his joints, Sunstreaker leaned his helm back and screamed. The sound was otherworldly, broken. He screamed until his vocalized broke off to static. Coughing through the pain, Sunstreaker let the rage that had been boiling inside of him bubble to the surface as he continued to scream from the depths of his belly. 

Everything in his life had been slag. His carrier was brutally murdered when he and his brother were too young to understand what a twisted fragger their sire was. They were banished from their family, labeled spawns of Unicron. They fended for themselves on the streets of the destitute, doing horrible things that no younglings should ever have to do just to survive another orn. 

Sunstreaker screamed harder, haunted by his own memories and the injustices of the world. 

The Autobots never cared for him more than a weapon. His own brother abandoned him without a second thought whenever a mech with a nice aft walked by. Sideswipe didn't love him. They were bondmates, bonded together finitely by their twisted sire at a young age. But even as Sunstreaker tried to make his brother happy, even as he tried to make the best of their fucked up life, he was only ever considered "second best".

Why did life have to be like this? 

Sunstreaker continued to scream with all of his might, his spark swelling in its casing as emotions overwhelmed him. He couldn't hear the alarmed shouts of others or the sound of falling debris. 

Bombshell's cruelty. Hunter O'Nion's horrific demise and the part of Sunstreaker's own spark that went with him. The memory of Ironhide driving back to civilization to try and save him, only to succumb to the same monsters that somehow gifted himself with creations. 

The pain became too much. He couldn't scream anymore. Heaving labored ventilations, Sunstreaker finally opened his clenched optics. The room around him was in ruin. Small, helm-sized Swarm littered the floor and a massive hole gaped open the ceiling. The hive was still, completely silent save for Sunstreaker's furious venting and the snarls of close to twenty massive warrior Swarm stalking the room. Thousands of orange and a few dozen wide, red optics locked their gaze on his heaving frame. 

The scientists that decided to stick around after the earlier finale were backed into a corner. There was terror in the air, wafting from their frames. His spark could _taste it_. 

Those slaggers. Crazed, white optics narrowed in disgust. They didn't deserve their cushy life. They didn't even deserve the energon pumping through their lines. _They_ were the reason why his eggs were taken away. 

The feral Swarm warriors stalked closer to the cornered Decepticons. Deep, enraged growls reverberated in the room, eliciting something exciting in Sunstreaker's spark. Something that was once wrong seemed so very right in that instant. 

Kill them. 

_Kill them._

He wanted to feast on their warm energon. Sunstreaker wanted to break their necks and make them watch as he drank the energon straight from their lines. He wanted to split them into pieces, starting from the peds and ending with the spark. They didn't deserve to live. They deserved to–

Suddenly, everything went black.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to personally thank the commenters who encouraged me to take a second look at the chapter that had previously been posted. I also want to apologize for the odd left turn it made. Some days headcanon gets dark. Usually, I edit the work to something feasible or start over from scratch when something like that happens. This is one of the rare times that something so sudden and violent got through. 
> 
> Again, I'm sorry if that upset anyone. I hope this updated chapter can help make amends. Even I didn't feel comfortable with the way things were going before. This chapter should lead things in a brighter direction.
> 
> Critique and helpful suggestions are always welcome. I may not respond to every comment, but they do help me form the story in a better way. Thank you to everyone who takes the time to do so. ❤

It was too late.

The eggs had been moved far beyond the hive by the time Sunstreaker regained consciousness. Flatline told him as such, as did his chronometer ticking steadily within the confines of his HUD. Far too much time had passed for him to find his creations. They were gone.

So much time and energy spent was creating not one, but eight lives over a short space of time. Having them ripped away right after their birth was a cruel punishment befitting of the Decepticon mindset. They did not care of his sparkache or of the fate of his creations; they were just resources to them. How could mechs become so sparkless?

Soft chirs and clicks vibrated through his frame. The carrier's body shook in exhausted tremors as the tears continued to fall. A large, clawed servo continued its gentle, loving caress down the quivering back. They'd been curled together for the past few orns, Bruce and Sunstreaker. Not even a moment passed where they were not embraced. Bruce was there for his carrier as he'd always been, and Sunstreaker accepted his quiet affections in the darkness of the small den in Flatline's laboratory. The comforting contact was welcome in the wake of loss. Laid side-by-side, chest to chest, Sunstreaker buried his helm under Bruce's chin and breathed in his bug's musky scent.

Movement shuffled in the darkness. Another frame, long and lean, curled protectively around their entwined frames. Numerous jointed legs shifted minutely to settle the yellow-hued frame close to theirs. Its helm rested on his hip, orange optics scanning the area outside of their little den.

Another Swarm had taken to staying by Sunstreaker's side after the incident. However, unlike Bruce, this one sulked around in his altmode. A quiet presence that turned into a beast whenever any unwelcome guests steered too close to the den. That assistant Flatline had still sported several weld marks from where the lengthy Swarm had sunk his fangs in and ripped when the Decepticon wandered too close. The ferocious defense was welcome.

Besides, the two Swarm could speak to each other in their native language, and they often did while Sunstreaker dozed. Clicks and growls said softly helped lure him into a deeper sleep so his body could focus on recuperating. If Bruce could be so calm and relaxed with this new face then maybe he could be, too.

~-~-~

"Come now. Refuel before it gets cool."

Sunstreaker jerked out of his daze and stared down at his full cube of concentrated energon. The contents slid around thickly in the container as he brought it to his lips.

Satisfied for the moment, Flatline fussed about the examination table. Examinations were quite standard by that point. Measure this vital, check those fluids, check another vital, give a slew of injections. In all honesty, Flatline was more a medic than a scientist when it came to day-to-day work. Medical work was still something that was naturally disdained by the breeder, but it appeared that Sunstreaker was at least tolerant of it.

Lights blinded the carrier when his optics were scrutinized with a thin flashlight. The beam clicked on and off, on and off, and Sunstreaker flinched away in discomfort. It took him a moment of resetting his optics before he noticed the soft expression on Flatline's face. The medic planted his servos on the edge of the table, just a breadth away from touching Sunstreaker's legs, and sighed softly. "You miss them."

It wasn't a question. Sunstreaker hadn't been well since his creations had been robbed from him. Bright blue optics became dimly lit, the proud frame took on a sickly matte finish, and the carrier himself had hardly made a peep let alone spoke more than a few words at a time.

One might call the captive mech broken.

It had been a long battle with a mech so spirited. Now, it was time to gain trust. "It wasn't my choice to take them away. I had hoped that at least one could be kept," Flatline said softly. A clawed servo gently traced a hung shoulder. Sunstreaker didn't even pull away from the invasive touch like he used to. Yes. Careful conditioning lead to these results, a task the Decepticon was well versed in.

Sunstreaker was not the first mech Flatline had groomed into a breeder. There were several mechs prior that were chosen for the Insecticon Program, most of which having been prisoners of war or mechs pulled from the Decepticon ranks. Often they were individuals who had survived near-fatal damage to their spark.

Gene splicing was tricky business. Insecticons fell in line beautifully with the ideal of the "Perfect Being" what with their sturdy frames and efficient energy consumption. Their CNA was different from the average mech, as was their spark signature. A mech could not be transformed into an Insecticon due to limitations by the former. However, manipulating the spark of a carrier could enable his or her _offspring_ to exhibit certain aspects of the Perfect Being. As generation after generation of Swarm were produced, the faulty genes were weeded out in favor of those more desirable.

Hence, Bruce. The Swarm held the processor of a mech and the frame of a line bred specifically for perfection. While his line was not a forerunner nor was it the strongest, his ancestors were skilled at protecting and playing the role of sire for a breeder. He had a passive temperament unlike many of his battle lusting relatives. Violence could be trained in the young chosen for combat. Caring could not.

A caring mate could mould a sparkbroken mech into a pliable breeder. However, Sunstreaker's future required special care lead by a strong, guiding servo.

The moody little carrier's spark had an anomaly not yet registered in the Insecticon Project: He could command Swarm through use of his EM field. Outside of the fiasco that followed the birthing, Flatline had never experienced a wash of electromagnetic charge filled with such...expression. How this was done, none of his coworkers could figure out, but Flatline planned to culture this ability.

"Are you done?" Sunstreaker asked quietly, pulling Flatline from his thoughts.

The medic realized his servo was stoking the expanse of the grey chest absently. His little breeder was uncomfortable by the closeness. He gave it another soft pat before pulling away.

Bruce stalked over smoothly, carefully cradling Sunstreaker in preparation for their return to their den. A touch to the Swarm's spiked arm made the creature pause. A seed of goodwill needed to be planted.

"Those that were to be offlined for dissection would have been killed with an injection." Blue optics turned to Flatline as he spoke. "It slows their sparks until they extinguish. The readings show no signs of distress. Some have compared it to going into recharge and simply not waking up." Sunstreaker covered his faceplates, choking on a sob. Flatline lowered his vocals to an even softer octave. "It's a method done to preserve the frame. The spark goes peacefully so the frame is not put under unnecessary stress. They need the frames as natural as possible for accurate testing."

Sunstreaker sobbed into his servos. A distinct sense of _relief_ radiated from his ragged EM field. Bruce grumbled softly, retreating with his charge to the confines of the den for rest. A quiet "Thank you" followed in their wake.

Exactly as planned.

~-~-~

"Where are we going?"

The question was more wary than scared. Flatline hummed a non-committal note as he ushered his breeder and the two Swarm through the halls used by mechs. The ceilings were a bit short for Bruce, making the large Swarm crouch.

Sunstreaker sat perched on the second Swarm's low-rising backstruts. He appears quite relaxed the way his frame swayed naturally with the long creature. In fact, the breeder's overall mood had improved significantly since their chat a few orns earlier. The occasional kind words did do wonders for a broken spark. So did pampering.

That was why they ventured to this section of the hive. The hive itself originally branched off a Decepticon base in the outskirts of abandoned territory. As the Swarm count grew, so did the hive, eventually consuming the research facility in its growing mass until the entire structure was consumed by the hive.

However, the Swarm mostly stayed out of the stark halls and testing chambers. Those with half a processor knew what kind of experiments were once performed on their kind not long ago within those walls. Even after the experiments were moved to a different location, the Swarm in general were, dare say, superstitious of the mech-made structure.

That allowed the resident Decepticons a place to rest and to congregate together during off hours. If there were mechs, there were also special amenities and services offered that Swarm had little to no interest in.

The herd of four squeezed their way to the common area where a scant few workers were relaxing. Flatline cleared his vocals, causing the Decepticons to startle just what exactly came trouncing into their little haven. It made the medic smirk. "Fetch Zapcannon. We have an appointment."

A mech in the back of the room hustled to the rear door to do as instructed. The others continued to gape at their uninvited guests. Bruce helped lift Sunstreaker off the other Swarm's back then carefully helped him settle himself on a low stool that a worker evacuated when the bug drew near.

Hurried, heavy pedfall proceeded the return of the mech that left earlier. He was laden down with buckets filled to the brim with cleanser, a satchel full of rags, and a case brimmed with paints and polishes. A short, thin femme followed behind at quick pace. She shuffled around the room, shooing the other Decepticons out, then pulled a stool close to Sunstreaker and started examining his frame. The small bag at her side was filled with various paint brushes.

"Zapcannon," Flatline greeted. "You are doing well, I presume?"

"Don't talk to me," she responded curtly. The femme didn't like him, but he was paying her well enough for her time. Zapcannon was the only Cybertronian this side of the planet that could do a decent paint job. Even Flatline's own finish was maintained my the femme that was two-thirds his height. Pissing her off would just make her hold out on touching up his paint next time.

Instead, the medic observed his little breeder while the femme examined his frame. Sunstreaker, who had grown uneasy under the stares of the mechs that just vacated, calmed considerably while the femme examined his plating from multiple angles. She was quick and concise with her work. A soaked rag washed down grey plating to clean any debris in preparation for the can set to the side.

Before long, the can was opened and long swaths of vibrant yellow danced along Sunstreaker's plating. The amazement was etched deep into the lines of the mech's faceplate throughout the entire process. There might have even been a small smile ghosting at the corners of his lips. Sanding, more paint, detail work, then a high-gloss sealant left Sunstreaker in pristine condition.

The credits were exchanged at the end, letting the breeder know who exactly brought this small happiness back into his life. Sunstreaker shifted uneasily through the exchange. He likely thought something was expected of him now. Instead, Flatline patted his helm and offered him a smile. "Let's go home," the medic said. No dues owed. This was a treat.

And this time, Sunstreaker did smile.


	33. Chapter 33

The quiet sound of clinking mechanisms woke Sunstreaker early one orn. Flatline was busy working on that strange project of his again: the thing he'd been working on it on and off for a while. It was a bit odd for him to be working this early in the orn. Maybe his project was close to being finished. 

Shifting back a little, Sunstreaker nestled deeper into the cuddling curl of Bruce's frame. A sleepy purr emanated from the large lump. Numerous legs skittered, spurred by a chill. The centipede-like Swarm pressed against his front readjusted to keep their plating flush. A warm huff washed down Sunstreaker's chest. The carrier smiled to himself, watching orange optics try to flicker on a few times before the Swarm gave up and went back to recharged. This one was definitely not a morning mech. 

To think, not even a vorn ago these creatures around him would've been shot on sight, and he would have been cannibalize for fuel. But now they protect him. He relied on them for protection in this fragged up hive. It was strange, but Sunstreaker swore that Bruce spoke with him sometimes. There were no words, sounds, or gestures to blatantly convey thoughts, but...it was almost as though he could _feel_ the words unspoken. Broken, fuzzy memories of the day his creations were born and stolen haunt his recharge. But he remembered two things: screaming until his vocalizer went raw, and the way Bruce's thick, dark armor flexed smoothly while he ripped something — someone? —apart. The unfamiliar taste of thin, sour energon on his lips when he woke the next orn concreted the fact that the nightmare was real. 

Bruce had been there to protect him, as always. Shifting his focus to the world outside their small den, Sunstreaker observed Flatline while he worked.

Flatline was... Something. Not good, but not bad either. The sadistic fragger took joy in embarrassing him and making him uncomfortable most of the time. Weird touches that edged on the line of sensual were rarer than they used to be, but that didn't stop the weirdo vibe. Flatline acted like one of those old mechs who would give a youngling an energon treat just to watch them suck on it. Freak. 

Sighing, Sunstreaker silently admitted to himself that Flatline really wasn't _that_ bad. The 'Con was a creeper for sure, but he could be nice at times. The medic may the jailer responsible for keeping him locked up, but he never flaunted his power. He was more of a soft spark than the average Decepticon in all actuality. He talked to Sunstreaker often to make sure he didn't get lonely and distracted his thoughts from painful memories, both current and past. 

Glancing at the reflective gloss on his plating, he felt more in his own "skin" than he had in a long time. Vain. Sunstreaker knew he was vain. He tried to break free of that arrogance when he joined Ironhide so long ago. It was too hard to try before then. Ironhide gave him strength without any sort of judgment. But even after spending so long out of the pristine finish that used to feel like a shackle, he felt such relief at being back to his prissy state. Beauty was...safe. 

It was suddenly quiet, he realized. Oh. The medic stopped working and was staring back at him. A crook to the mech's digit and the sly smirk on those dark faceplates made Sunstreaker a little uneasy. He roused Bruce in spite of that and was quickly scooped up and out of the den wordlessly. Left behind, other Swarm curled into a spiral of grumpy misery and buried his helm beneath a fan of legs. 

Sunstreaker was placed on the examination slab next to the workbench containing Flatline's project. There was a thick blanket cushioning the surface. Curious but weary, he eyed the assortment of strange parts skewed across the table. They were small, thin objects connected together by unfinished segments of wiring. A growing sense of discomfort grew in his tanks when Flatline coaxed him to lay on his flat belly. Two large straps held his torso still while ankle straps secured his peds to the corners of the berth-like slab. Needless to say, an Autobot can get a little uncomfortable with his back exposed to a Decepticon. 

Plating was removed piece by piece from Sunstreaker's aft to his knees. The spacious laboratory had an awful draft that seep straight into his exposed circuits. He shivered, helpless and unsure if he made the right decision to trust the medic. All the while, Flatline continued to work. One of the strange parts was welded to a support strut near Sunstreaker's left knee. Another secured along the inside of his right thigh. The welds smarted like a field repair. 

Dim, blue optics followed the Decepticon while he went back and forth between the two work surfaces. Black digits curled and uncurled, gripping the soft covering on the examination slab. This had to be a game of some sort, because the fragger kept shooting him smirks. 

"It's been a few deca-cycles since the birthing," Flatline said conversationally. Sorrow gripped at Sunstreaker's spark at the reminder of the pain that had been haunting him since that day. The prone mech focused on the sensation of Flatline's digits while they worked along his exposed struts and cables. "There has been plenty of time for your frame to invest in itself." 

Sparks flew as a laser dug into Sunstreaker's spinal strut. His peds flinched randomly as pain dashed down his neural net. The piece cut free was examined with a critical optic. Dark blotches of burnt out transistors littered the boxy surface. Eyeing the piece, Sunstreaker gasped in realization. That...part looked almost identical to the largest part on Flatline's workbench. But the item sitting innocently on the table hadn't been soldered on. That thing— It wasn't naturally any part of any Cybertronian's frame. The ex-frontliner had seen more torn up frames than he needed to know that the strange, small rectangle was not natural. Burning pain resumed in the spot that the item was removed. The new, replacement object was implanted.

When had it been implanted? What was it?

"W-What are you doing?" he asked, craning his neck to see the strange things that were being covered by plating. Flatline ignored him, continuing his little project of removing plating, implanting foreign parts, and sealing up the underwire. It was like he was trying to hide the pieces beneath the golden plates. 

The time stretched on indefinitely to Sunstreaker's panicking processor. Each implant tingled as his nanites began integrating the lifeless metal with his own system. He could literally feel neural channels crawling through his weld-damaged struts and into the foreign objects. Someone once described it as a limb waking up. It _itched_ , which only seemed to fuel Sunstreaker's growing concern. 

Eventually, Flatline stepped back to admire his work. The plating on Sunstreaker's hindquarters was back to the state it should be. None would be the wiser to the odd addition save them. Sunstreaker worried his bottom lip, watching as the Deception brought over a small device with a pointed tip. The large armor plating that covered the base of his spinal strut was loosened and lifted. The device pressed lightly against the rectangular box. 

Finally, Flatline spoke, "This will hurt." 

Bolts of pain zapped through Sunstreaker's frame, originating from the largest implant and the devise prodding it. His body jerked violently on the table, convulsing through the several thousand volts of electricity conducted through that damned rectangular box. All he could hear was the sound of zapping, crackling electricity and the rip of the blanket beneath his servos. 

Even after it stopped, the pain did not ease off immediately. Sunstreaker keep his helm down and focused on his ventilations. Error reports of minor circuit damage popped up on his HUD. Nothing urgent, nothing critical... Manageable. That couldn't have been it. There had to be more to come. Had to—

He was being moved. The world shifted then spun wildly. Sunstreaker swore at the way his gyros spun; the electric shock must have knocked them out of whack. "What are you—?!" A servo on his arm both balanced and silenced him. 

Something was decidedly off, Sunstreaker realized as his processor righted itself. Flatline was standing in front of him, but the 'Con was looking _up_ at him. Bruce and the other Swarm were both watching with varying degrees of interest and sleepiness. If those two were there, then how was he suspended so high? 

A confusion-drunken glance upwards revealed the curved ceiling high above. There were no ropes or chains suspending him even though he swayed from side to side. Shakily, Sunstreaker turned his attention down to the floor, to the sight of his frame being supported by his own two peds. Instinct had him reaching out and locking a firm grip on Flatline's frame for support. His optics continued backwards, following his peds to his back. There was...nothing supporting him. 

Sunstreaker slowly turned his helm, worried that any sudden movements might break the spell. His awestruck gaze settled on Flatline in all his calm, confident glory. Like a shepherd herding a stray from the unknown, the mech carefully guided Sunstreaker through the moves of both proper stance and his first few steps. 

_Even the strong fall._

Gentle words of encouragement did not embarrass him like they should. Even when he stumbled, Flatline only encouraged him to keep trying. Each step was unsteady on the limbs that seemed so foreign. They separated to test what he had learned. Nervousness got the best of him; Sunstreaker fell almost instantly. 

_Even the strong fall._

Those words spoken with such faith, such knowledge, gripped his spark. He trembled, so unsure. But he rose of his own power, pushing past the limitations of his straining limbs to rise once more. Flatline did not mock or gloat, nor tease or taunt. He simply said:

_Even the strong fall. But it is the mighty that get back up._

And so, he did.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ehehehehe. I regret everything and nothing.
> 
> P.S. Sorry for dropping the bombshell on this one.

Walking was much harder than he remembered it being. Maybe it was so difficult because the floors of the vacant tunnels were so uneven? The passageway, so different from the rectangular-framed halls Sunstreaker was used to, were irregular sections of expanding and contracting oval-shaped passages. The likes of which were intended for the two beasts quietly plodding behind him, in all honesty. It was so difficult keeping track of himself through the chaotic, winding labyrinth.

But, he had to find the way to the surface before he... Before he was induced into another heat cycle. So he made an effort to scout out as much of the cave system as he could in hopes of finding an exit. The spark-deep fear of creating life only to have it ripped away again pushed him to keep trekking up and down the tunnel mazeworks until he literally collapsed in exhaustion. His dutiful guardians stuck close to his heels each orn he managed to venture out, and they carried his limp frame back to laboratory's den when he could go no further. It was frustrating, nerve-wracking. Some days he wanted to scream. Other days, he did. He had to escape.

Time was against him. Each orn mattered more than the last.

Grip tight on the edge of the medical slab, Sunstreaker swung his legs in restless agitation while he waited for Flatline to finish one of his frequent examinations. Scans tickled his sensor-net in their usual flurry as his frame was scrutinized. There was the occasional needle prick, but it was nothing compared to the shots he received while he was carrying.

"You've been quite busy recently," the medic commented while going over some readouts. "Is there anything you've been searching for in the hive? Anything you might need?"

Screwing his neural expression into a scowl, Sunstreaker said in a clipped tone, "No, I'm fine."

A servo rested on his shoulder, the caring gesture allowing some tension to drain from him. Flatline tutted, "Now now. Anything my little carrier wants, my carrier gets." The black mech brightened. "Why, we could take a trip over to the energon pools for a soak." Sunstreaker scowled, helm turned away. "There you can rest and relax before your next heat." Fists clenched the edge of the berth; cables tightened beneath golden plating. "I've heard that it does wonders for—"

"I'm leaving," he snapped.

The room was quiet for a klik, but Flatline quickly recovered. "Oh, um, yes. You need to... What was it you were doing again?"

"I'm getting out of this Primus-forsaken pit."

"You can't..." Flatline trailed.

Sunstreaker glared at the shorter mech, optics hard. "And you're gonna stop me?"

The look that passed across the Decepticon's face was not that of anger or of hurt, but of something else entirely. Slowly, as if speaking to an irate K-Con, the medic said, "I am your caretaker, Sunstreaker. I wish only to care for you, your offspring, and your mates." The servo on his golden shoulder squeezed as if trying to convey the importance of his next words. "You may leave, but you will be forcibly returned."

Wide, red optics stared into detached blues. "It would not be by _my_ servo."

Pushing past the shorter mech, Sunstreaker stormed away. He knew, in his spark, that he could handle whatever Flatline, the Hive, or even Shockwave threw at him. Telling scars hidden beneath his polished veneer vouched for that.

~-~-~

Warm air brushed down Sunstreaker's backplates in invisible caresses. Large, clawed servos slid enticingly down his curved side, catching briefly in seams to tease at sensitive wires. That was until the touches were angrily batted away.

Every orn it was the same. They'd grope and touch and outright try to frag him if they could. The best luck the two Swarm had was when they'd molested him while he was sleeping. It made Sunstreaker so wet and wanting when he woke that he feared his heat had been triggered. But thankfully, he was able to pull himself together enough to drag his frame out of the steamy den and into the chilled hive tunnels before anything else happened. Bruce tried to slyly usher him back to finish what they had started, but he profusely refused. And when the beast tried to carry him back...

Sunstreaker never yelled at Bruce before that orn. Not even once. He screamed obscenities and hate at the top of his vocalize, cursing the damned existence of the Decepticons, the Swarm, and even the gentle guardian himself. He said how much he hated _Bruce_ for doing all this to him.

In the orns that followed, both Bruce and Wade gave him his distance. They still followed him through the hive tunnels to make sure he returned safely. And they still tried to curl their frames close to his own in the den. But they never again tried to touch him while he slept.

The careful touches returned, sending warm trails of heat in their wake. Glaring over his shoulder, Sunstreaker radiated _leave-me-the-frag-alone_. Bruce visibly deflated at the angry outburst, pulling away miserably at the hostile rejection. Sunstreaker tried to ignore how much it made his spark twist.

The two stayed miserably separate for the rest of the recharge cycle.

~-~-~

The sound of a half-finished cube of enriched energon set down on the table was deafening in the stillness of the lab. Crossing his arms and slouching in his seat, Sunstreaker resolutely kept his optics turned away from the disappointed medic and their uninvited guest. It was that scrub lab assistant again. The stupid idiot had his optics locked on the cube and the most pathetic pleading look on his plain face.

"Sunstreaker," Flatline said, voice oddly soft. "You need to finish your energon."

He refused to acknowledge the request. Flatline, in his own mind, was trying to "protect" him from punishment. But avoiding that mysterious can of worms meant getting himself knocked up. That wasn't an option. He'd go down fighting before willingly letting something like that happen again.

The scrub assistant let out a quivering sigh. It was the third time he'd stopped by in as many weeks. "I-I'll inform C-Commander Shockwave."

Flatline drummed his digits rapidly. It was a nervous tick of his. "He's just being stubborn," the medic said, getting up and repositioning the cube so it was closer to Sunstreaker's frame. "The second time is always the hardest." The good-natured laugh he tried to pull off sounded pathetic. Sunstreaker never heard the Decepticon so nervous before. "We need a...slight extension. Nothing big."

The pair removed themselves from the table, and Flatline escorted the grunt out the door. It took the medic a solid three kliks before he moved away from the door and back to the table. When he collapsed into his seat, Sunstreaker stood up and left.

He purposefully ignored Flatline holding his helm in his servos.

~-~-~

It was the orn after a long scouting session, still with no success, that the tense days were changed.

Golden yellow plating rippled in a wave as Sunstreaker jolted online; a sheet of condensation clung to his frame despite the chill in the air. Great puffs of steam cascaded in clouds from his cycling vents. Neither Bruce nor Wade were in the den, and by the lack of heat they hadn't been in there for a while. Unease made his spark churn faster in its casing. He climbed out of the curtained opening to examine the situation.

The first thing he saw was Flatline staring at a holo-projection of Shockwave's upper torso. It appeared the Decepticons were conversing quietly. However, Bruce was starting at attention behind Flatline's right shoulder. A quick scan of the lab found Wade sulking in the dark recesses behind machinery.

"Your failure to provide results is disappointing, Decepticon Flatline."

The words, said so calmly, sent a flinch through said mech's frame. It seemed that Shockwave was displeased.

"Commander Shockwave, Sir," Flatline pleaded. "I fear that the alternative could—"

"Silence." The single word said over the fuzzy transmission shut down whatever was going to be said in protest. "A _more capable_ scientist has been deployed to obtain results." Threat given, Shockwave shut down the transmission, leaving the room unnaturally silent.

Seated on the lip to the entrance of the den, Sunstreaker watched Flatline's expression flicker to panic then fall to grief. He watched as Bruce gently nuzzled the medic's shoulder in a tender display of comforting. It put him on edge.

Climbing to his peds, the black and red Decepticon slowly padded over to Sunstreaker. He dropped to his knees, resting his helm in the golden lap, and took in a great ventilation. Surprised by the action, Sunstreaker nearly questioned it before he was cut off.

"Sunstreaker. You are strong." Flatline's voice was a mumble. "That is a good thing—a very good thing, in fact. But you can't—" The medic cleared his vocalizer of the static creeping into his voice. "This is one thing you cannot avoid. Please. For your own sake, Sunstreaker. Please mate with Bruce, or with the other. Someone. Anyone." Arms wrapped around the carrier mech's legs, clinging to him. "Please."

Sunstreaker could not respond. Spark heavy with guilt and fear, he extracted himself from the embrace and left the laboratory. This time, he went alone.

~-~-~

When he finally returned, exhausted and without results, his tunnel vision guided him to the den on instinct. That was until a frame smoothly stepped into his path. Sunstreaker paused in his strides, focusing tiredly on the charcoal arms and broad purple chest accented with marigold.

A servo landed on his helm, tilting it up so his view was only that of a red optic band and a grated mouth guard. The grip tightened ever so slightly, bending Sunstreaker to his knees without a word spoken. Even with his vision blinding with the sudden fear igniting like a fire to his lines, the feel of the grip on his helm alone was enough to tell him who it was. The touch of that one servo said who, exactly, had been sent to resolve the "problem" he'd caused.

"Hello, Sunstreaker," the Insecticon purred. "It has been far too long."


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sideswipe saves the day!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank Nyanswipe for the gorey fluff inspiration at the start of this chapter. Sideswipe to the rescue...! 
> 
>  ~Key~  
> kilk = ~1 minute  
> joor = ~1-2 hours  
> orn = ~1 day  
> sol = ~1 year
> 
> ::::Spoilers::::
> 
> This chapter is the most graphic thing I have ever written. If you get squicked or triggered at any point...I'm sorry. Unless you're at the end, it's going to get worse. There's some very triggery stuff in here. It took me a week to get past it enough to even finish it.

Disconcerting sounds of clicks, chatters, and chirrs echoed through the dimly lit passageways. Unnatural growths clung to the mech-made walls, collecting in corners and along edges like sticky grit between armor seams. The scent of fouled energon wafted through the air. Keeping his optics dim, the red frontliner silently scouted ahead of the small party searching the infested structure. The otherworldly place reminded him of the scary stories his sire told him when he was a youngling.

Finding the infested building was easier than they thought once they found one of its hive members, marked it, and then tracked it. It would have been a difficult task a sol ago, but the rag-tag group was stronger now in the grisly face of the Swarm. Sideswipe was stronger than he was before. They'd managed to take down the sweeping patrol with little hassle. As long as no silent alarms were triggered, infiltration looked like it was going to be quick and clean.

The spark signature was there. Somewhere close by Sideswipe picked up the faintest sensation of his brother. His fuel pump kicked up a notch. More than a sol had passed since Sunstreaker's disappearance. He remembered the orn Ironhide led him out into the deadly wilds of Cybertron. Their world was more dangerous than ever with the Swarm so heavily infested in certain areas. Each orn was a challenge harder than the last.

It took several laps through the mechmade and alien-like sectors for Sideswipe to pin down the exact location. Energon-slicked blade gripped tightly in his grasp, Sideswipe pressed himself against the grimy wall next to an open doorway. The rustling sound of movement inside meant someone — or some _thing_ — was on the other side. He vented once, swallowed the lump in his throat, then moved.

The 'Con never even saw him coming. With a quick cut, the much's throat tubing erupted, spilling living essence down his burgundy plating. Sideswipe then gripped the thick helm and twisted it sharply, breaking the neck with a gurgling snap. Spinning on his heels, he scanned the room for any other inhabitants.

Two quick, light rasps at the doorway signified that the other half of the party caught up. Ironhide carried a slight limp in his gait from a recent scuffle. The hard look on his old face said he was pained but functional. Sideswipe nodded at the other's servo-gestures and they scanned the room more thoroughly.

Walls of equipment hummed in the crowded room. The machinery made it hot, and the heat only made the rancid stench worse. In the center of the room sat a small examination slab, and atop that rested a strew of small parts and cabling covered in energon. The Decepticon lying dead on the floor had been dissecting something. This place wasn't the first they'd found where mechs were chopping up their experiments.

Noise from a side door caught their attention and immediately both mechs looked to it. Sideswipe's spark ached, urging him in that direction. Without thinking, he rushed to the door, swung it open, and searched the darkness. What he found inside made his tanks clench.

A solid klik passes. Ironhide placed a servo on his shoulder from behind. "Is it...?" the old mech asked, unable to see past the younger's bulk.

Shaking his helm, Sideswipe bent over the bars of the small enclosure hidden in the closet and picked up what they hadn't even known they'd been searching so desperately for. His spark sung with the joy of reunion and the despair of failure. This was _his_. Only, it wasn't.

A tiny pair of baby blue optics stared up at Sideswipe, tense and overbright. It's small digits curled in the gaps between his armor plating as its field questioningly brushed against his own. Sideswipe stumbled back, struts weak when the sparkling's field danced in recognition and it relaxed it's taunt frame in his arms. It allowed itself to relax because it was— It thought he was—

The sparkling was Sunstreaker's. But to his spark and the mangled connection it had to his brother/mate, the little life was just as much his as Sunny's.

There was nothing else there. Sunstreaker's closed end of the bond still hummed with life, but he recognized that it was far away now. The realization was devastating.

Keeping strong, Sideswipe cradled the babe with one arm and readied his dagger in the other. He turned to Ironhide, ignoring the mechs gobsmacked expression, and said, "We need to get out of here."

The red twin held the sparkling close to his chest, suffusing it's frame with an EM field full of love and protection, then whispered, "We found what we came for."

~-~-~

Half a planet away, Sunstreaker laid limp on a cold, hard slab.

The small, insect-shaped cerebro-shell resting at the base of the carrier's neck cables controlled the flow of data through his spinal circuitry. It kept him mostly paralyzed from the neck down by rejecting his processor's desperate commands to move away, but it did not block sensations.

They were located in one of the old labs that was consumed by the Hive long ago. Decrepit reminders of the experiments performed in the ghastly corridors littered the area. Broken down machinery, covered in unidentifiable debris, were pushed in a heap into the corner. Below the ceiling watercolored by dulled stains of old, dried energon swung a bare bulb that emitted an ethereal glow in the room. Each slow pass of the fixture cast new shadows on the frame working above Sunstreaker's own. It's dark silhouette shifted in short, methodical jerks that made Sunstreaker's sensor-net scream with each antagonizing push, but the slow, ragged withdrawals made his optics roll back in his helm. His frame was slick both inside and out with a variety of fluids that were tinted a deep, luminescent magenta. It pooled around his frame, trailed down the slab's energon channel, and dripped in a steady rhythm to the floor.

Sunstreaker lost so much energon already.

Several long needles were strapped into the energon lines in his arms. The thick lengths of tubing connected his frame to energon drips, which were strung to bag after bag of life-fluids that crowded the stands. The pressure in his lines rose and drop with each pump of his screaming systems. The bags were nearly half empty. Replacements were already being hooked up by a silent figure close by.

The drag of a slow withdrawal tore a ragged moan from Sunstreaker's vocalizer. His helm jarred to the right, the pain forcing his body to react. Sensors the Autobot had hoped deactivated flared to life when a machine hissed in the background. His spark spun. That sound: that meant it was almost over. Maybe? He didn't know anymore. But, oh Primus, he hoped it was almost over.

Pain intensified tenfold. It was coming. Sunstreaker's optics brightened in growing panic, his processor able to do little to prepare himself for his sudden decrease in pain tolerance. Bombshell's optics stayed locked on his work; the mad scientist's ventilations remained steady in spite of the force he put into each downward thrust. The up and down motion of the Insecticon's torso grew faster the more Sunstreaker reacted, resulting in the force of his movements jerking the yellow frame across the table.

Fuel pumps raced. Cooling fans screeched. Plating rattled as his entire frame trembled.

The monster sawed viciously.

The pain intensified to the point that Sunstreaker's entire frame seized. A spark-wrenching scream was torn from his abused vocalizer when the instrument of cruelty finally broke through. Energon spilled like a fresh well from the open wounds in his chest.

Another hiss sounded. Slowly, a warmth tickled through his lines. The sharp edges of pain tapered off to something more manageable with every pull from the drip-fed lines. Though he could not control his trembling, nor could the cerebro-shell.

Beside him, Bombshell set aside the bloodied handsaw and lifted the chunk of disembodied armor into the light. Energon glistened along the ravaged edges that once connected it to Sunstreaker's frame. The graying hunk of metal was set down. Tape ripped, then servos dug into his chest to wrap up a weeping line. The flow eased to a drip that he could feel patter on the internal walls of his back plating.

Bombshell then turned to review the nearby console and its readouts.

Strutless, all Sunstreaker could manage was staring blindly at the single bulb swaying above. Pain still wracked his frame, but it lessened with the numbing agent in his fuel lines. The ability to think beyond the moment returned. This was the third rotation of the exact same process. Experience reminded him that it was just what Bombshell _did_ and what he would continue to do until he was satisfied. The period of rest between sessions was hitting him harder each time. His frame burned, unable to calm itself with the knowledge of what would come next: the same excruciating pain. The brief thought of passing out was a dream, but he was too on edge for something like that. Artificial adrenaline kept him conscious and would continue to do so until he was deigned true rest.

Sometimes, the rest periods hurt more than the torture sessions. It was in the stillness of these lapses that his processor looped on the memories of how he'd scorned those who tried to protect him. Flatline tried to warn him of what would happen if he crossed Shockwave. The medic tried to stop Bombshell from getting his claws into Sunstreaker. But he did not listen; he did not trust the mech or his warnings. If he'd listened...

The memory of Bruce's saddened faceplates made Sunstreaker's spark clench. The Swarm tried to save him, tried to protect him by making the unwanted process pleasant. But at every turn Sunstreaker scorned him. He, the stupid glitch, said so many cruelties to the one that that really cared for him.

All because he was scared. Sunstreaker sobbed, overwhelmed by pain and suffocating emotions.

When Bombshell returned and the pain came rushing back, the broken mech embraced it as the punishment he knew he deserved. He suffered through the dismemberment of two more armor pieced, a digit, and his left audio-fin.

Beaten, bloodied, broken; Sunstreaker accepted the pain.

~-~-~

The passing of time was a blur in Sunstreaker's exhaustion-addled processor. What displayed as days on his chronometer felt like weeks of endless torture. A dull warmth gripped his gut, possibly a small fire Bombshell lit in his torso. He couldn't tell—too many connections had been severed. While he could smell no smoke wafting above the abdominal plating, peeled back like an orange, his vision degraded to blobs of indiscernable mass highlighted by flashes of light. There did not seem to be any licks of flames coming from the opening. But he couldn't tell.

The constant stream of sawing off hunks of armor with an increasingly dull blade ended when the silent observer in the room wheeled in a squeaky cart. That accursed handsaw was placed on a table far away with a _clank_. It filled Sunstreaker with a hollow happiness. That pain was over. For now. But what was next?

Something large and metallic echoed as it met the hard floors. What was it? Morbid curiosity got the better of him. Sunstreaker turned his helm to the side, wincing when his exposed audio circuitry sparked against the butcher's slab. He could barely make out Bombshell methodically interacting with the object. The other mech was there, too, holding the big metal _thing_.

"Keep the pressure..." Bombshell's voice was clinically detached as he instructed the other mech. Measured pumps created air pressure in the tall metal object. Sunstreaker had little time to think on it before he was assaulted once more.

It was cold. Bitter coldness ripped into his exposed internals as sharp as any blade. The spray was a jet stream that blasted from a thin nozzle capable of twisting deep inside his chassis. The fluids drenched his component, forcefully dislodging every shaving of metal and every speck of energon before moving to the next area. Swaths of icy liquids sloshed through his internal framework and out his flared back plating in an endless stream.

But what should have left him numb only made his system smolder. Heated steam rose up through his torn chest plating. The spray slowed to a soft stream then to a trickle. Sunstreaker laid still, panting as his systems burned hotter and hotter. He began to miss the biting chill as warmth engulfed his frame.

"You are fortunate that Shockwave still has use for you," Bombshell said with a bored voice. The sound sent a shiver down Sunstreaker's spine. "There are so many things I could do to a frame like yours."

Blue light flared to life near enough to his helm that the golden mech twitched. The incandescent torch went straight for the jagged edges of sundered plating. Sunstreaker screamed in pain as the raw edges of his armor were melted.

"But you still hold value as a carrier for my brethren."

The torch sunk its fangs in his living metal, burning the edges beneath the onslaught of flame. He literally melted.

"But you. You were always the stubborn one," the Insecticon reminisced. "I always liked that about you. It made breaking you more enjoyable every time."

The flame pulled away for a brief klik, it's blue light tracing along the edge of something nearby.

A smarmy note lit Bombshell's vocals as he said, "But now. Now you're just a broken image of your former self. Weak. Pathetic."

Sunstreaker heaved for cooling ventilations. Flames returned to his chassis and with it a hunk of his disembodied frame. Sunstreaker bit his glossa as he was welded back together.

~-~-~

It took a full orn for everything to be reattached. Another for partial recovery.

Sunstreaker woke on a soft berth in a dark room. A single IV dripped energon into his lines. The constant pain from the torture settled as a background thought, the steady hiss of the pain-killing agent's deployment making everything fuzzy. He hoped everything was over. He hoped to return to the lab. He prayed to go _home_.

But joors later left him in the last place he wanted to be: balanced atop the lap of the monster that broke his frame more times than he could count.

His finial was the last piece reattached to his frame. Bombshell's large, purple digits traced along the fresh weld lines with a disturbing kind of fascination. Sunstreaker struggled to turn his helm from the touch, fought weakly to get away. The curious contact was a stark contrast to the crazed scientist's usual touches. It set him on edge in the wrong kind of ways.

Sunstreaker was hot. Uncomfortably hot. Without the constant pain he had trouble focusing on more than the warmth of his frame and the cold touches of the Insecticon. Somehow, in spite of the damage done to him, the heat had set in. He would have purged if there was anything left in his tanks.

Cruel digits traced down the length of his body, igniting sensors with their unwelcome touch.

"Such an ugly little thing," Bombshell whispered, the heat of his ventilation sending chills through the smaller mech's frame. Digits traced meaningfully along the edges of a scuffed interface panel. "You're lucky you still have some use."

Sunstreaker sobbed, drunk on pain killer and his body's reaction to the stimulus. The panel slid back, revealing swollen folds slicked with lubricant. Two pairs of digits slipped inside, each from one servos, and pulled the opening wide. The stretch was cruel, a test of the give in his opening.

The burn felt better than it should have. Lubricant leaked down his thighs.

Releasing the valve folds, the Insecticon took hold of Sunstreaker's aft with both servos. A long, thick shaft extended from Bombshell's interface, brushing against the slick opening as it rose to it's full height. Thumb digits hooked along the top of the carrier's thighs then pressed the aft back, grinding the heated equipment together.

The cloud in Sunstreaker's processor made his thoughts slower than his reactions. When the Insecticon pushed him down on that damned spike, his self-hate blossomed a klik after he moaned unabashedly. Servos guided his frame along the thick length, supporting him as he faltered. When his valve squeezed and spasmed through an embarrassingly fast overload, Sunstreaker shook with guilt. When he overloaded once, twice more, he begged. In his spark, he knew it wasn't a plea to stop. That hurt worse than any of the physical torture.

~-~-~

The door to the laboratory swung open. A push-cart wobbled in, carrying Sunstreaker's limp frame across the threshold. Flatline immediately rushed over to assess the situation. He crouched next to the cart and his servos fell on warm plating.

Scars of burns and weld marks covered Sunstreaker's frame from helm to peds. His breeder was alert enough to move sluggishly, but his dull optics stared blindly at the floor. A momentary pang of worry made Flatline question if Bombshell had gone too far.

"In four orns I completed what you could not in forty," Bombshell rumbled, pleased with himself.

Sunstreaker trembled beneath Flatline's touch when Bombshell laid a servo on his helm.

"I trust that you no longer need my services," the Insecticon continued. "But, of you should fail to obtain results again," A lewd inflection darkened his voice. "I would not object to re-educating this one. He is such a...pleasure to rework." Flatline did not miss the way Sunstreaker's vents caught.

The Insecticon left as he'd arrived: suddenly and silently. Flatline stared at the door long after.

Servos rose to squeeze lightly on the medic's chest plating. Looking back, he saw that his carrier was blindly seeking comfort. Flatline settled down on the cart and carefully guided Sunstreaker's helm to rest on his lap. Soft, gentle strokes traced up and down the length of the relatively undamaged back. The touches soothed the trembling while Flatline ran scans.

There was a great deal of damage, so much so that it would take joors to properly categorize. However, it appeared that it was all superficial damage that could easily be healed by self-repair. The Decepticon breathed a sigh of relief.

Soft mumbles trailed up from the helm resting on Flatline's lap. He leaned down closer, picking up mumbled words that he couldn't understand. "Shh, rest," he soothed.

But the jaw on his leg continued to work itself. "I-I-" Sunstreaker swallowed thickly.

Flatline cradled the helm in his lap and continued shushing gently. The helm turned, dim blue optics flooded with tears stared up at him. "I'm sorry," Sunstreaker sobbed through his static-laced vocalizer. "I'm so...so sorry."

The beg for forgiveness made Flatline frown sadly. "I never wanted you to be hurt like this. If only you had listened..." his sorrowful voice crooned as he curled down close to Sunstreaker's helm, petting it with care. "Will you please listen to me from now on, my little carrier?"

Blue optics widened then clenched shut, forcing more tears to spill. Sunstreaker nodded his helm and curled his frame closer toward Flatline's.

"Good," the Decepticon said softly, continuing to gently stroke the broken mech's back. "I don't want you to be hurt like this again. Listen to me and this will never happen again."

As Sunstreaker nodded once more and clung desperately for support, Flatline sent a ping to his console. The computer responded, sending a prepared message to a far-off Decepticon outpost, hidden miles underground. The receiving console diplayed a simple, two-word message:

_Mission successful._


End file.
